"I don't want to talk anymore.”
"You've come this far,” he says. "Buddy helped you get rid of Wendy's body. That's why he's always had such a hold over you, why you could never refuse him anything he wanted. Why you've always been grateful to him, and always afraid of him."
"He's my-me-my-my old-old-old—"
"It was Buddy, wasn't it, who thought of what to do that night?"
Yes, I think, while my mouth wallows and drools, sloppy, piggish, revolting . . . Yes, I think. I nod.
FLASHBACK IB
Jack trembled and was useless, nearly dropping the girl's body, but Buddy was strong. He held her ankles in the crook of one arm, opening the trunk of the car with his other hand, while Jack blubbered and shook, his arms around the girl's stiffening thickening body under the armpits. Already she felt different, heavier and more animal and less real. Already she was less real.
"I always break things," Jack blubbered.
"You get too excited, Dad," Buddy told him, the trunk lid rising like a mouth opening. "You got to learn to take it easy."
Jack moaned. He stood there sobbing and moaning while Buddy eased her legs into the trunk and then had to unclamp Jack's hands to make him let go of her torso. Buddy stuffed her into the trunk, pushed her hair in after, turned her so the lid would close, slammed the lid. "I'll drive," he said.
Jack just stood there, his head shaking, mouth working, shoulders sagging, arms hanging limply at his side. Buddy gazed at him with contempt, then deliberately kicked him on the shin. “Ow!" Jack said, and stared at Buddy wideeyed.
“Get in the car," Buddy told him. “Front, passenger side."
Jack obeyed, and Buddy got behind the wheel and started the engine. Jack said, in a tiny voice, “What are we going to do, Buddy?"
“Get rid of it," Buddy said, and backed the car around in a half circle.
“We don't go to the police?"
“Never!" Buddy shifted into park and looked at his friend. “You want to go to prison? Come out when you're thirty-six?"
“No, Buddy."
“You can go to the cops now," Buddy told him, “or never. You don't change your mind tomorrow. You don't change your mind ever”
“Yes, Buddy."
“Which is it?"
“I don't want to go to prison," Jack said. He was very humble, as though he were talking to God, and God was impatient with him.
“So it's no cops," Buddy said. “Is that right? Just to get things straight."
“No cops, Buddy," Jack said.
“Okay," Buddy said, and shifted into drive, and took them away from there.
Out on the highway, Jack said, humbly, “Why are you doing this for me, Buddy?"
“I'm your best friend," Buddy said. He was paying attention to the traffic and the speed limit. He didn't want to get stopped by a highway patrolman.
“You are my best friend, Buddy," Jack said.
Buddy laughed. “And it's a movie!" he said.
They left the highway where the signs pointed for the lake, then turned off that road and climbed high to another place where lovers sometimes liked to come. But none were here tonight.
The road made a sharp turn to the right. Ahead, a wide dirt parking area narrowed on the left side to a cliff, with the lake far below, glinting cold in the starlight.
"Open the windows and get out," Buddy said.
Jack did it and came around to the driver's side, where Buddy was wedging a rock onto the accelerator, making the engine roar. Jack said, "What's happening, Buddy?"
"That ought to do it," Buddy said, and straightened. The engine roared as though it were afraid. Buddy said, "Wendy always said she'd run away from home. So she did. Stole her old man's car and ran."
Jack's jaw trembled, his eyes filled with tears. "She was so nice," he said.
"She was a sicko," Buddy said. "Say good-bye to her, if you want."
Jack moved back to the trunk of the car, remembering how Wendy had looked when he'd first opened the car door and the light had gone on, and there she was. And now . . .
The engine roar was like screaming. It made the car vibrate; it seemed to heave. Buddy had left the lights on, and the red and white lights reflected from the enigmatic trunk and the gleaming bumper chrome. Jack reached his hand out toward the trunk, wishing with such intensity that it broke his heart, wishing it all undone.
"Here goes," Buddy said. He reached in through the open driver's door to shift to drive.
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 . . .
38
I feel so empty. I feel like a tree after the sap has been drained away. Big, woody, stupid, dull tree, too dumb to fall over. My eyes are open, but I see nothing. Even my forehead can't see anymore. Hearing how dull my voice is, hearing how I'm a tree and I'm empty but there's no echo, hearing how even the echo is drained out of me, I say, "Nobody ever knew about that, except Buddy and me."
"And gradually," the voice says, "the memory faded. Nobody linked you to Wendy's disappearance, you got so you could sleep at night again, Buddy's strength carried you through."
"Buddy never mentioned it again, not once."
"Buddy didn't have to mention it."
"No," I say. "That's right."
"Still," the voice says, "time went by, and everything was all right. You were going to be okay. But then it happened again."
"Yes," I say.
"It wasn't your fault this time," the voice says, "but the ingredients were the same. Sex. The woman. The backseat of the car. And she was dead.”
"Miriam. Don't die."
"But she did. And you had your breakdown."
"I could never weave those goddamn baskets."
"And when you came out of the hospital at last," the voice says, "you were still terrified of women. You believed you were doomed to destroy them, not wanting to. That's why you tried that interlude with George Castleberry."
"Also," I am forced to say, "Biff Novak was a great part."
The voice ignores that. Unstoppable, the voice rolls on: "And since then, you have been attracted only to strong women, too strong for you to hurt. And when they hurt you, as eventually they did, you felt you deserved it, because of Wendy."
"Did I?" I am surprised to find that I am capable of surprise. "Maybe I did," I say, and realize that one of these days I must rethink all my relationships. But not just at this particular moment.
"It was the girl who went out the window at Big Sur," the voice says, "who brought it all back for you yet again."
So different, and yet the same. The same arcing fall, reaching out and down, so slow and then so fast, plummeting toward the water. The car in the night, its lights on, dropping toward its own illuminated reflection in the still, deep lake. The girl in the sunlight amid the jewels of broken glass, dropping toward the hungry roiling sea. The same. Wendy. Dead again. "It keeps happening," I say. "No matter what I do, it keeps happening."
"After Big Sur," the voice says, "you withdrew to this estate."
"I'm safe here."
"You almost never leave,” the voice says. It knows so much about me, this wonderful voice. It knows so much, and it stays so calm. If I knew that much about me, I wouldn't stay calm. Oh, boy. You couldn't get me calm, if I knew all that. And the voice goes calmly on, saying, “You keep yourself drugged—"
“Mellowed. Mellowed."
“It's been hurting your career, Mr. Pine," the voice says. “Buddy didn't like that."
FLASHBACK 25
The room to the right of the front entrance, a large square pleasant place with views of the lawn and main drive, had been turned into an office. Desks, filing cabinets, library table, computer, shelves filled with scripts and stationery supplies; it might have been a Midwestern insurance agency. Jack himself rarely entered this room, his interest in the mundane details of real life being minimal at best,
but today his drifting took him without particular plan or purpose through just another doorway, and there he was, in the office.
And there was his secretary, clipping things from newspapers and magazines and mounting them in the clear plastic folder-pages of an album. And there was Buddy, seated at the library table by the windows, going over ledgers with Sol, the accountant, a short, wide, ugly man with a brain like a Renaissance Italian. Buddy and Sol were both looking grim, which Jack wasn't likely to notice. In fact, looking around with pleased surprise to see where his drift had led him, he said, “Ah. My merry staff. My merry accountant. My merry Buddy. How is everybody?"
“Good morning, Jack/' the secretary said, glancing up briefly from her work, her manner neutral.
The accountant, squinting at Jack across the ledgers, said, “Jack, if you have a minute—”
“Sol," Buddy said, placing a hand on the accountant's forearm on the table, “let me talk to him."
The accountant shrugged. “Just so somebody does," he said.
Jack's smile turned vague but didn't disappear. Buddy got to his feet, crossed the room, took Jack by the elbow, and said, “Let's go for a walk, Dad."
“Sure, Buddy."
They left the office, Buddy holding on to Jack's elbow, went out the front door, walked across the lawn, and made their way to the formal rose garden at the side of the house, where two gardeners puttered, accomplishing very little. Buddy looked at them. “Vamos," he said.
They vamosed. Jack smiled after them, smiled at the roses, smiled at Buddy. “It's nice here," he said.
“Dad," Buddy said, “we're in trouble."
“Take some blues, Buddy," Jack advised him. “Don't let it get you down. Knock back a little T and B."
“We're beyond that, Dad," Buddy said. He gave Jack's elbow one little shake and released him. “Sol tells me we're spending ahead of income," he said. “We've got investments out there, they need cash, we've got to prime the pump, and we don't have it."
Uncaring, still with that same vague smile, Jack said, “All goes to the candy man."
“A lot of it does," Buddy agreed. “Dad, you hurt yourself in the industry with that Academy Award mess, and now you're hurting your career. You're making bad choices."
“Buddy, Buddy," Jack said, reaching for his buddy but missing, “loosen up. What does it matter?"
“It matters a lot," Buddy told him. “All you care about is to stay stoned and to stay right here inside these walls."
“Come on, Buddy, I go out."
“Where?"
Jack thought. “Brazil," he said.
"Once a year." Buddy shook his head in disgust. "You're turning into Howard Hughes," he said, "only you don't have any tool company. You still have to make a living, but you don't want to anymore."
"Kick back, Buddy, kick back."
But Buddy stayed tense and serious. "We built something nice here, Dad," he said, "and I'm not gonna let you pull it down."
With mild curiosity, Jack said, "Whatcha gonna do, Buddy?"
"Stop you," Buddy said.
39
"That was just before Buddy left on his trip,” the voice says, "six weeks ago.”
Focus. Focus. Something's scaring me, something's wrong here, and it is necessary for me right now to get under control, find the reins of my existence, gather myself together into one place. Mayday! Mayday! Battle stations! Prepare to crash dive!
No; prepare to crash surface. Up out of the depths, all in one piece, coming up to the real world, blinking around. And if I see my shadow?
I see O'Connor. Ah-hah; I'd lost that. O'Connor. The interview. For a while there it was just a voice, almost inside my head with me. I was in a Beckett play all by myself, me and the voice. Saying . . .
Wait a minute. That's what's wrong. "Wait a minute,” I say, looking at O'Connor, seeing O'Connor plain. "You aren't from People.”
"No, sir,” he says, "I'm not.”
"Damn straight,” I tell him, sitting up more firmly, converting my fear into righteous rage. "People wouldn't put all this stuff in; dead girls in trunks of cars, sleeping with George." Suddenly I get it; I stare at him, wide-eyed. "The National Enquirerl”
"Sir, I—"
Alarmed and outraged, I tell him, "Pal, I don't talk to the Enquirerl I set the dogs on the Enquirerl" Lifting my head, I cry, "Hoskins!"
And he appears, as is his function. Bowing from the waist, my unflappable Hoskins says, "You bellowed, sir?"
Good man. I say to him, "Hoskins, do we got any dogs?"
"No, sir," Hoskins says.
"Drat," I say. It would have been fun to watch this bland and boring O'Connor high-tailing it across the lawn, pen and notebook flying, pursued by slavering dogs. I say, "Well, we got security men, Hoskins, you can't deny that."
"I do not deny it, sir," he says.
"Send me security men," I tell him. "Sadistic security men, with a history of psychopathology. We got here a National Enquirer reporter, and I— "
"Oh, I think not, sir," Hoskins says.
I frown at him. Hoskins thinks not? What does this mean? "What does this mean, Hoskins?"
But it's O'Connor who answers me, saying, "It means I'm not from the National Enquirer, Mr. Pine. I'm not a journalist at all."
What's this? I'm chatting with some bum in off the street? I say, "Then what are you doing talking to me? You got an appointment?"
"Sir," he says, smooth and calm as ever, "as I told you at the beginning of the interrogation—"
"Interview," I say, correcting him in a hurry, feeling a sudden alarm.
"Interrogation," he says, and then it gets worse. "The other police officers," he says, "read you your rights and explained the situation to you before you came out of the house. If you don't remember that, I'm sorry, but"—and he smiles, faintly—"the legalities have been preserved."
All I can do is stare at him. "You're a cop?"
“Detective Second Grade Michael O'Connor," he says. “Bel Air police."
“But—But—” My mind is swirling, I can't believe this is happening. I say, “It was an accident! It was twenty-five years ago, I didn't mean to kill her, it was an accident! Besides, I, I've been a useful member of society ever since, I've paid my debt to society, I—I gave, I give—Hoskins!"
He's right there, of course. “Sir?" he says.
“Every Christmas," I say, because I need him to vouch for me now, I need Hoskins on my side now, “every Christmas, don't we, we give, we send out those UNICEF cards, don't we?"
“Yes, sir," Hoskins says.
I face O'Connor—policeman O'Connor—I face him and spread my hands. “See?"
“Mr. Pine," this policeman— policeman!—says, “it isn't a twenty-five-year-old felony that concerns us now. Let's talk about last night."
Feeling scared again, nervous and scared, covering it with mulishness, I say, “I don't remember last night. I wasn't here. I was in a different galaxy."
“Maybe we can bring it back for you," O'Connor says.
“No need," I say. “Don't trouble yourself."
“No trouble," he assures me. “It was late last evening. You were coming down the main staircase. The front door opened and Buddy Pal walked in. Do you remember that?"
“No," I say, though in fact faint images are rising to the surface of my brain, little bubbles of image, each with a picture inside, each bubble popping, the images staying behind, filling in, bit by bit.
“Think back," O'Connor tells me. “Buddy Pal walked in. You said something like, ‘Hi, Buddy. Where've you been?' Do you remember that?"
“Maybe," I say. “What's wrong with that? What difference does it make?"
“What did he answer?"
“What?"
“When you asked me him where he'd been," O'Connor says, patiently pressing me, holding me, squeezing me, “when you asked him where he'd been, what did he say?"
Why should I cooperate with this son of a bitch? “I don't know,'' I say.
&nb
sp; “Think," O'Connor suggests.
“I don't remember."
“Think.”
I think. I can't help it. I think more than I should. I try not to think, I do all kinds of things to stop from thinking, but none of them ever work, not for long. I think, and then Buddy's remembered voice comes into my mind, and I repeat what he'd said to me, where he'd been: “Brazil," I say.
O'Connor nods. “Is it coming back now?"
It is, dammit. Not thinking is hard to do. “I was already stoned when Buddy walked in, but when I saw him, when I saw what had happened, what he'd done, I right away took a lot more stuff."
FLASHBACK 26
The east parlor by night, in the glow of its table lamps, was a warm and gentle room, cozy and comforting and good. Now, on the table where Dr. Ovoid had spread his samples, there stood a large Limoges plate bearing two parallel white lines of powder. Jack bent over this table, his back to the doorway, where Buddy stood watching him. One end of a straw was stuck into Jack's nostril. His head moved from left to right across the plate, using the straw to vacuum up one of the two lines. Then he turned and looked at Buddy, his expression dulled, but with terror showing through.
Buddy smiled, with his new face. "Go ahead, Dad,” he said, still sounding like Buddy. "Get it on.”
Still sounding like Buddy. But not looking like Buddy. Looking like Jack. The doctors in Brazil had taken that similarity of feature and bone structure, had combined that with their own high skills and techniques, and had turned Buddy into a new Jack.
A better Jack. A healthier Jack, thinner and trimmer. A Jack who might have come into existence in the normal way, except that the original had led his body down other avenues. But here he was, as he might have been.
Jack turned away from that cold-eyed other self. He inhaled the second line, and behind him Buddy stepped further into the room. Jack remained bent over the table, staring at the bare plate, trying to see himself in it, trying to see the real self reflected in the plate, but seeing nothing.
Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 Page 15