Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50

by Sacred Monster (v1. 1)

  Within, the ambiance was of a trapper who'd done very well for himself; an As tor, perhaps. The knotty-pine furniture with rosy chintz-covered cushions was rustic but comfortable. The Indian rugs on the floor were muted Mondrians, schematic, symmetric, each with its tiny deliberate unnoticeable imperfection, placed there so the gods—who think of perfection as their own prerogative- would not become jealous and take vengeance on the carpet's maker. Or owner.

  Balancing the broad, heavy, dark-wood front door, on the opposite wall, was a huge fields tone fireplace in which a construct of large logs slowly burned, orange and red. Above the fireplace, where the moose's head might be expected—and where, until recently, the moose's head had in fact been displayed—a wide amber painting hung, called “The Return from Calvary'': the weeping women in the foreground, the dirt road curving back and up to Golgotha, the three crosses tiny but prominent there against the cloud-raging sky.

  A sound of Gregorian chants filled the clean air of the high-ceilinged room. Jack, dressed in red floral neckerchief, checked flannel shirt, Levis, and well-worn cowboy boots, sat in a wide knotty-pine armchair near the fire and read a copy of Lives of the Saints. Peace, that peace that surpasseth understanding, abided in the room.

  Hoskins, dressed quite similarly in style to Jack, although his neckerchief was blue and his cowboy boots less worn, and the entire sartorial approach less suited to his size, shape, age, and demeanor, entered bearing a silver tray on which stood an opened can of Coke and an ice-cube-filled glass. He placed the can and the glass on the rough-legged knotty-pine table beside Jack's chair.

  “Thank you, Hoskins,'' Jack said, glancing up from his book. “We're all equal in the eyes of God, you know.''

  Hoskins bowed from the waist and from the neck. “And very good of Him it is, too, sir,'' he said.

  Jack returned to his reading. Hoskins bowed again and departed toward the rear of the house, carrying the silver tray. Jack poured some Coke into the glass, waited for the bubbles to subside, and sipped. He returned to his reading.

  The Coke was not quite finished and the ice cubes not quite half their original size twenty minutes later when the broad front door opened and Buddy entered, also dressed in the same style as Jack, except that his neckerchief was black and his boots were a highly polished snakeskin. In this setting, dressed in such similar fashion, that old resemblance of their youth was more pronounced again, as though they were cousins employed by the same rancher.

  Jack looked up, as always pleased to see his friend. “What say, Buddy? Have a good trip to town?"

  “In a way," Buddy said. He was carrying a large manila envelope in his left hand. He shut the front door behind him, crossed the room, and sat in the chair on the other side of the small table bearing the Coke. Jack went back to his reading, and Buddy sat watching him, his expression troubled. He fidgeted with the manila envelope in his hands. One Gregorian chant sighed and reverberated to an end, and a moment later another one started.

  Jack looked up, mildly interested. “Something wrong, Buddy?"

  “I'm sorry, Dad," Buddy said, looking and sounding sorry, “but I've got some bad news."

  “There is no bad news in the eyes of the Lord, Buddy," Jack reminded him. “Just good news."

  Buddy took a deep breath, and then blurted out: “The Reverend Elwood Cornbraker's a phony."

  Smiling, confident, Jack shook his head. A finger marked his place in Lives of the Saints. He said, “Oh, no, he isn't, Buddy."

  “But he is."

  “Buddy," Jack said, “I know you haven't felt the call as strongly as I have, but you can be sure of one thing: Reverend Cornbraker's as real as God Himself."

  Buddy looked grim. He said, “His real name's Ralph Hatch. He's done time twice in federal pens on mail fraud."

  Still confident, Jack smiled in commiseration and said, “Not possible, Buddy. Mistaken identification. Goodness just shines from the reverend's brow."

  Buddy said, “He also did a couple years in Indiana State Penitentiary for child molestation. He liked to take pictures of himself with the kids."

  Buddy tossed the manila envelope into Jack's lap, atop the copy of Lives of the Saints he held there. Jack stared at it, his expression growing more and more blank. Finally, with nothing showing on his face at all, he withdrew his finger from Lives of the Saints, placed the book next to the Coke can on the table, and picked up the envelope. Even with nothing showing on his face, it was clear from the slope of his shoulders and the slowness of his movements that he really and truly didn't want to know what was inside that envelope. He opened its flap, then looked across at Buddy, but there was no reprieve there. Buddy sat and waited and watched.

  Jack sighed. He slid two fingers down into the manila envelope and partially brought out an eight-by-ten glossy photograph. He turned envelope and photograph around so he could look at the picture, then sat for a long silent moment unmoving, studying what he saw.

  Buddy cleared his throat. He said, "The Feds got a tip that Hatch was back in business."

  Jack glanced at Buddy. "A tip? Who from?"

  "Anonymous," Buddy said. "I figure we'll never know who blew the whistle."

  Jack looked at his friend. He nodded. He looked again at the photograph.

  Buddy said, "Hatch is under surveillance now; they'll close in soon when they've got all the evidence they need. I didn't want you to be there when it happened."

  Still looking at the photo, Jack said, "Turn off that fucking music, will you, Buddy?"

  Buddy got to his feet and crossed the room to where the stereo equipment was concealed in an old marble-topped dry sink. While he hunkered in front of it, opening its door, Jack removed three more large photos from the envelope, dropped the envelope on the floor, and looked at the pictures, turning them this way and that.

  The Gregorian chant stopped. Buddy rose, shut the dry sink's doors, and came back across the room to sit once more at Jack's left hand.

  His manner calm, judicious, Jack tapped the photo he was looking at and said, "I didn't know anybody could do it in that position."

  Buddy leaned forward over the Coke can. Jack turned the picture so they could both look at it. Buddy said, "It's young bones. They're supple."

  “Try that with a grown-up," Jack suggested, “you'd break something." .

  “I'm sorry, Dad," Buddy said somberly. He kept looking at the photograph.

  Jack also kept looking at the photograph. “Nothing to be sorry about, Buddy. I appreciate what you've done. It's better to know."

  Jack studied the photographs. Buddy studied Jack, waiting it out.

  LUDE

  O Connor looks at Jack Pine's closed eyes. They've been closed for some time, down beneath his palely gleaming forehead. When they first went to half-mast, and then all the way shut, O'Connor was worried, expecting the actor to pass out again, but in some ways he's been more coherent since the hatches were battened, speaking with a kind of pathetic vivacity about his religious period, moving right along in sensible sentences, almost totally free of non sequitur and silence.

  Until now. A silence has now arrived and is lengthening. O'Connor wants the star to tell the story himself, all the irrelevant stuff just as much as the stuff that has a bearing on the case, so he's been giving the fellow his head, letting him ramble on. But silence doesn't help, doesn't explain what happened here last night. At last, O'Connor leans forward, softly says, “Mr. Pine? You're at the ranch. The Reverend Cornbraker is a fake.”

  A long low sigh escapes the actor's lips. In equal and opposite reaction, he settles back and to the left, listing slightly, like a ship suffering a small hole below the water line.

  “Mr. Pine?"

  His voice slurring, sleepy, hoarse, Jack murmurs, “I was happy, then ... on the ranch . . . with God." And he folds over and down onto the slate, on his left side, curled into fetal position.

  “Shit!" O'Connor says, and looks around, wishing there was somebody else to take over this duty. It's li
ke pulling teeth, for Christ's sake. “Mr. Pine?" he says, then louder, calling, “Mr. Pine? Mr. Pine?"

  No reaction. The actor’s breathing seems shallower, more ragged. His forehead seems even paler and gleams less. Beginning to feel concern, O'Connor looks toward the house, calling, “Hoskins!"

  And that faithful servant appears at once, moving at an ungainly but rapid trot from the house, holding up in one hand a hypodermic needle. When he arrives, he nods at O'Connor. “You called," he says.

  “You see," O'Connor says, gesturing at the unconscious actor.

  “Yes," Hoskins says, nodding. “I thought it might be time for dire measures."

  Dropping to one knee beside his recumbent employer, Hoskins deftly pulls up the unconscious man's pale blue terry-cloth robe, revealing a buttock as high and round and pale and vulnerable as that sleeping forehead. With practiced economy, Hoskins jabs the hypodermic needle into that buttock.

  “George!" exclaims Jack, in his sleep, in playful mock surprise, as his limbs quiver and are still.

  Steadily, Hoskins depresses the plunger. Steadily, the clear fluid in the syringe flows into Jack Pine's bum. Withdrawing the needle, Hoskins restores the robe to its former position and rises, saying, “He'll be right as rain in no time now, sir."

  “For how long?" O’Connor asks. The pages of notes inexorably filling his notebook seem—at least at this stage—mostly useless, with no more than hints and faint clues as to what led to the dreadful finish last night in this house. Nevertheless, this still seems to O'Connor the best way to get at the truth, unless it's going to take forever. “How long can I have him?" O'Connor asks. “How long can he operate at all?"

  “Hard to say," Hoskins says, studying the fallen actor. He shrugs, his manner brisk. “Call when needed," he suggests, and strides away again toward the house, empty syringe held high.

  O'Connor, remaining in his canvas chair, leans toward the unconscious man. Was that movement just now, or merely the play of light and shadow as a small cloud crossed the sun? “Mr. Pine?" O'Connor calls. “Mr. Pine?"

  “I left my homework on the bus," comes the murmured answer.

  “Mr. Pine! Dammit, wake up!"

  Jack Pine twitches, all over his body, then rolls out flat onto his back, eyes wide open, staring upward, drawing the pale ashiness of the summer sky deep into those eyes, so that they seem ancient and blind, consumed with gray fire. “It all goes back," he croaks, in a voice that echoes as though emerging from the deepest pit of Hell, “it all goes back—I remember—"

  22

  Screams, screaming, engine roars, flashing lights in red and white reflecting from the bumper chrome, slicking on the heaving trunk of the car, madness, danger, movement, peril, speed . . .

  “No!”

  I roll over onto my face, nose rooting deep into the cool hard slate; pain is good, it distracts, it drives the thoughts away. Reaching down and back behind myself, I grab handfuls of terry-cloth robe, pull it up over my head, hiding from the sky and the past and everything. Cool air soothes my bare behind, where one spot tickles and stings; a mosquito must have got me while I was napping. (Good, an irrelevant thought. Keep ’em coming, for Christ's sake!)

  “Mr. Pine? Mr. Pine?”

  I thrash with my ankles in protest, wanting no one to be here, wanting to be called from nowhere, wanting oblivion, dear sweet oblivion, dear God oblivion.

  “It's me, Mr. Pine,” the maddening voice says. “Michael O'Connor.”

  I stop kicking with my ankles, stop stubbing my toes against the patio slate. I lift my head, wearing the terry- cloth robe around my face like a pale blue monk's cowl. I gaze away across my gray-green lawn beneath the gray- blue sky, past my gray-white house. I become thoughtful. “Michael O’Connor/' I say, judiciously, hefting the name, contemplating it. “A good name,” 1 decide. “Very solid. Td like to be Michael O’Connor for a while. Several days. Drive a Volvo.’’ I twist around to look past my pale blue cowl and my pale blue shoulder and my pale white ass at this person named Michael O'Connor, whoever or whatever else he might be. I see a neat dull man, nondescript, and yet somehow familiar. Am I going to be expected to remember something? Ignoring that idea, I say, “Do you drive a Volvo?’’

  “As a matter of fact,’’ he said, “no. A Saab.''

  “Damn,” I say. “Wrong again.’’ Then I become more aware of that gleaming ass of mine, down there beyond my blue shoulder. I'm naked in front of this guy! A wind must have come up, blown my robe up over me while I was deep in contemplation of, of, of something or other.

  I pull the robe back down over myself, roll over, continue the robe adjustments for some little while, and at last sit up, barely even noticing how easy it is to sit up. I must be in better shape than I thought. I look at Michael O'Connor, a neat and self-contained man, if drab, seated with knees together, pen in right hand, some sort of memo pad on his lap. He looks familiar, in a kind of a way. Memory stirs. (Not that memory. This memory.) I say, “Aren't you the guy I was talking to the other day?’’

  “Just now,'' O'Connor tells me. “Right here. We've been talking right here.''

  “I thought you were the guy,'' I say, smiling with easy familiarity, covering a certain embarrassment. “Remind me,’’ I say, “fill me in. Insurance?''

  “Actually,'' O'Connor says, with a charming diffidence, “I wanted to know about Buddy Pal. You were telling me your life story.’’

  Then it comes rushing back. (That doesn’t. This does.) I slap my forehead, I wave my arms around, I kick my legs, I do every silent-movie how-dumb-I-am move I can remember. I say, “The interview! Of course!'' Then, confidentially, man to man, bringing him aboard, making him a member of the team, I say, “Pal, you gotta forgive me on this. My schedule's very complex. I'm just off a picture, you know, the Gone with the Wind remake, and I just . . ." I wave hands.

  “I understand,'' O'Connor says. Sympathetic guy. I could get along with this fella.

  I open my heart to him even more. “I was straight for weeks, Mike, and then—Is it Mike or Michael?''

  “Usually Michael," he says.

  I might have guessed. There's something prissy about this guy, uptight, not loose and relaxed. Well, anyway, let's befriend him just the same. “I was straight a long time, Michael," I say, “and then something happened, upset me, I fell— . . ."

  “What was that, Mr. Pine? What upset you?"

  “Doesn't matter, Michael," I tell him, waving it away with a carefree hand. “That's ancient history. That's archives, Michael. The point is, I wasted myself. I'd been taking a taste here, a hit there, a pop somewhere else, you know what I mean? Maintaining. That's my idea of being on the dope wagon, Michael, maintaining that nice balance, that easy lope through life." And I wonder, am I using his name too often? Do I risk moving beyond manly camaraderie to starrish condescension? Best back off; keep on the good side of the press, that's the name of the game. “Where were we?" I ask him. “Did I tell you about Marcia, my first wife?"

  “Yes, sir," he says.

  “Pow!" I tell him, taking a poke at the air. “Right in the kisser, you know?"

  “You were at the ranch," he reminds me. “Buddy Pal had just told you the Reverend Cornbraker was a con man."

  “And child molester," I say. “Oh, yeah. Things got kind of grim at the ranch around then. Meantime, life wasn’t so hot down at the beach, either."

  FLASHBACK 15D

  The kitchen of the Malibu house was as modern and shiny as ever, still a pale symphony in white and stainless steel and blond butcher block, but there was an indefinable sense of laxity about the place now, an impression of disinterest, a falling-off of care. On the shelf beneath the cabinets, for instance, the canisters were no longer in size places. Some silverware lay about, the trash can was full, and the pot on a back burner of the stove had a faintly grungy look.

  Dad had brought a small portable television set into the kitchen and put it on the white table at the eat-in end of the room. He sat there now, swi
tching his teeth from hand to hand as he watched golf. At the butcher-block island, Constanza sat on a high stool, looking at snapshots and drinking a glass of milk, with the milk carton near at hand. Over by the refrigerator (fingermarks around the handle), Mom was angrily on the phone, saying, “Whadaya mean, he isn't there? You always say he isn't there! He's my son, isn't he? He's my own goddamn son out of my own goddamn body, isn't he? Why can't I talk to my own goddamn son if I want to"

  “The twins are gettin' bigger," Constanza said, riffling slowly through the snapshots.

  Mom bared her teeth at the phone. “You're a lying sack of shit!'' she yelled. “That's what you are!'' She slammed the phone onto its hook, veering away, her hand clutching at air, her mouth snapping like a piranha. “He can't do that to me!" she cried, and glared across the table at Constanza, who looked warily back at her, beginning to sense that things were going radically wrong. “Why do I have to put up with this?" Mom demanded.

  “I no know," Constanza said, trying to come up with a soft answer in an unfamiliar language.

  “How can he treat me this way?" Mom yelled, and waved her hand, crying, “Give me that milk!"

  Bewildered, Constanza handed across the butcher block to Mom her half-finished glass of milk. Mom grabbed it, lifted it, and poured it on her own head. Milk streamed down over her face and ran into her tight gray hair. She flung the glass away; it bounced off a cabinet and smashed on the floor. Ignoring the noise, Mom lunged forward as though somebody else were trying to beat her to it and grabbed up the plastic carton of milk. It was about a third full.

  Constanza, wide-eyed, shaking, scrambled clumsily off the stool and backed away from the butcher block, as Mom upended the milk carton over her head, milk splashing down onto her head, dripping off her nose, staining the shoulders of her old gray cardigan, gluing her hair to her scalp. Flinging the empty carton away, Mom glared at Constanza and moved around the butcher block after her. Constanza moved, too, keeping the bulk of the butcher- block island between them, and slowly they reversed their original positions.