Burning Moon

by Richard Barre

  Look where it got you.

  Look where all of it got you.

  They were at the access tunnel, then, and home, Matty into the dry food, Wil barely making the head before his stomach decided—even before he decided against driving to Lisa’s and having it out with her, whatever that meant—that enough was fucking enough.

  40

  From his spot in the rocks, the man watched the dog fetch the stick, bring it back and drop it, Hardesty stumble toward the access tunnel. Giving them a moment, he put his eyes even with the roadway, watched man and dog emerge on the other side, lights come on in the small frame house with the good-sized deck and, after a bit, wink out.

  He lit a cigarette, drew in smoke, thought about the frame house, its occupant likely passing or passed out. Easy enough to go in if it weren’t for the dog. Interesting development, the dog: next time dog biscuits. And yet, his thing with Hardesty could wait; there was work to be done tonight. With a last drag on the cigarette, he punched in a number on his global phone.

  “Ah,” the voice said, hearing who it was. “We were beginning to wonder.”

  “In time, remember?” the man said. “It’s not a place you simply walk into.”

  “You’ve seen it, then.”

  “I have, and it’s Fort Zinderneuf.”

  “Ah, yes—Beau Geste. But you have a plan.”

  “I have a plan.” Turning his collar against the damp rising in off the water.

  “When?”

  “That’s for me to fathom and you to know when it’s in effect. Soon enough, you may assume.”

  The voice waited, then, “As in tonight?”

  “Westside Story,” the man said, knowing it was a reach, but tossing it out in the name of banter. Inwardly pleased but not surprised when the voice came back with, “Best Picture, 1961. Anything else in your bag of tricks?”

  “Just make sure the money is, that’s all.”

  There was a cold chuckle, stones in a well. “And you, my friend, keep in mind who has been hired by whom.”

  The man said, “That wouldn’t be a threat, now, would it?”

  “My friend, any threat I make won’t be open to question.”

  On principle, the man let a moment pass: calm and control. Then, “We’ll be in touch.”

  “One way or another,” the voice came back as a truck blew past, raising fine grit that stung the caller’s eyes.

  41

  Wil woke to dirty sun streaming in around the blinds, Matt’s nose in his ear, his own stench fogged around him. With difficulty he made it to the head where he managed to get four aspirin down before tossing them, the next batch staying put until he could tamp them with a leftover English muffin. Coffee was a fumble, but he prevailed and got some down, then showered and dressed, wanting nothing more than a shot of sour mash with an egg in it. Anything to still the trembling gelatin his insides had become.

  Plumber’s Helper in a glass.

  Dishes gone from grease to shine in half the time with Joy.

  No more troublesome stains.

  How easy it was to forget how genetically altered you felt the next day, how genuinely fucked. Not to mention empty of resolve, worth and humanity. And yet it had never stopped him before, the days after Devin when every shot was supposed to be his last.

  Life after flatline, the end of all pain.

  Ten-thirty: He threw up again.

  By two, Alka-Seltzer and some microwaved oatmeal, he was together enough to listen to phone messages, the first of which was from four forty-five the day before: Lisa saying, “Bev told me…” Pause. “If you’d like to just talk, not at me but to me, I’ll be home tonight.” Pause, click.

  As much in the pauses as in her tone.

  Wil tried returning it, but she was in meetings. All day, the receptionist made it a point to stress: audits. The next message—five o’clock—was from Vinh Tien asking for Wil’s hours and expenses. Fishmarket sounds in the background, Wil picturing the scene, the office from which he’d made the call. Click. A third was from John Pereira—seven p.m., John on his way home—telling him they’d received an incident grid and addendum regarding Harmony that he’d have his assistant fax over.

  Lost in the shuffle, evidently; as yet, no fax in Wil’s machine.

  The final call was from Mia, approximately when he was bringing down Nelson’s liqueur bottles and kicking sand at the shadows, her voice saying, “My uncle heard my dad fired you. He wants you to know he holds no grudges. For some reason you impressed him, because now he’s interested in hiring you himself. Some people outside the gate, is how he explained it, whatever that means. He’s entertaining guests during the day, so anytime after seven works.” And, as if she was reading from notes: “Look…I’m sorry about this morning. But you see what I mean about my dad? Just out of control.” Another pause, then, “I’m sorry. I have to go now.”

  At the same time Wil heard his fax machine activating in the other room, he heard feet on the stairs, saw Lorenz through the door panes.

  Alone, from the look if it.

  Outside, the afternoon light had turned an even duller shade, and he could see the buildup of ash where he’d hosed the deck off earlier. He opened the door.

  “What happened to you?” she asked when she’d finished eyeing him. “Stick your head in a vegematic?”

  “Nicked myself shaving,” he said.

  “Your eyeballs, too, from the looks.”

  “Something on your mind, Lorenz?”

  “Sharing, remember? You mind if I come in?”

  Wil stepped back to let her enter, sniffing the coffee he’d brewed. Waiting until she’d poured some and was braced against the counter before telling her, “Vinh Tien fired me yesterday. End of story.”

  “Fired you how come?”

  “He felt I was consorting with the wrong crowd. Any idea what he meant by it?”

  She ignored the crack. “That what made you get boiled?”

  “Did it ever occur to you to not stick your nose into other people’s business?” Trying a little more coffee before backing off and waiting for the wave to pass.

  “I happen to have eyes,” she said. “Frankly, you look like something the tide washed in.”

  “Thanks for the update. Where’s your partner?”

  “Catching up on things.” Reaching down to pet Matt, who’d taken up residence beside her and was looking up expectantly “So what now?”

  “You mean careerwise? Where do I begin? Oh yes: Luc wants to hire me for something that might relate to you. Like maybe you’ve been made?”

  She spent a moment regarding him to see if he was serious. Then, “How about canning the crap, huh? If it’s true, that’s something that could get us dead.”

  “Touchy,” Wil said. “‘Some people outside the gate’ is the way it was phrased, and for some odd reason, I thought of you. I’m supposed to know tonight.”

  She took a breath, nodded. “All right. Call us when you do, it doesn’t matter how late. And Hardesty?…”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did send you off the tracks? And don’t say getting fired.”

  “That, Agent Lorenz, is none of your business.”

  “Right…whatever.”

  Swallowing the last of her coffee, she rinsed the mug, set it in the drainer, headed for the door. “Take care of yourself,” she said, opening it and looking back at him.

  “What, you’re cutting me loose me, too? How can two days bring such favor?”

  Her eyes stayed put. “And sober up while you’re at it. Self-pity’s a broken crutch.”

  From somewhere inside his spinning center came, Okay, you want it, you got it: He said, “My ex-wife decided that being alone and knocked up by Shoeless Joe Jackson the Body Shop King, maybe aborting it because it’s Downs, is preferable to asking for help. And for the record, some people don’t know when to quit.”

  Hesitation, then, “Help from you, that would be?”

  “Bingo,” he said. “The l
ady by the door.”

  “To do what, exactly?”

  Wil felt the room start in the opposite direction.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “You felt betrayed because you love her and thought she still might love you, much as you can’t be together. Your son or your work or something.”

  “Spare me the psych ops, Lorenz, I’m not in the mood,” he said, pissed he’d risen to her bait. “Whatever I’m feeling, I’ll handle it.”

  “Sure you will. Funny thing, my dad was like that. He never let anybody in either. It got him killed, and for what, some circle that has to stay unbroken. Try and understand, he’d tell me: You make your way and certain things come with the territory. Give me a fucking break.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not real clear on a lot of things lately.”

  Without looking at him, she said, “Mac doesn’t buy it, but I think Jimmy was approached by somebody other than us. Somebody who wanted in on Luc’s action. That’s assuming you still give a damn.”

  “I might,” he said. “You have any idea who?”

  “Somebody up the food chain would be the guess.” A glance his way. “And you didn’t get that from me.”

  Wil nodded. “Thanks, Lorenz.”

  “Just watch it tonight, Batman. The last thing I want is you on my tab.” Feet on the stairs giving way to diminishing car sounds.

  ***

  Pereira’s fax amounted to a grid of the search area and tighter coordinates of where the dragger had hung up on Harmony, plus sheets of notes. But instead of deciphering them, Wil opted to crash until Lisa got off work, to gird himself for that encounter. Setting the alarm for five, he drifted off to Lorenz saying, Somebody other than us. Somebody who wanted in on Luc’s action. Somebody…

  At six, showered again but still sweating, eyes awash in de-reddener, he was sitting on Lisa’s steps with a six-pack of ginger ale when her Lexus pulled into the drive.

  “Ground rules,” she said, before even a hello, carrying a filecase and her briefcase into the house as he unlocked it with her key. “I talk, you listen. I ask for input, you talk. We clear on that?”

  “It wasn’t Bev’s fault,” Wil said. “It was mine.”

  “Strike one. No, it was mine for confiding in her, mine for ending up this way. Anything else before I start?”

  “You want one of these?” Handing her a Vernor’s.

  “Thank you.” She took the rest into the kitchen, came back with two glasses and ice, kicked off her shoes. “I never meant to get you involved, you know that. It’s just that I had to tell someone. I should have known it would get back.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” he said. “I waited for Bev. I pressured her.”

  “There’d have been nothing to pressure from her if I hadn’t blown it.” Cream blouse and skirt under a celadon blazer she took off and set aside, pouring her ginger ale and downing some. Looking more closely at him before reaching out to touch his forehead.

  “You’re clammy. Are you all right?” Sealing her lips to inhale what remained of his breath freshener, eyes widening as it dawned. Saying, “Oh, no. You didn’t go back. Not on top of everything else.”

  Wil fought the flush, knowing it was a losing battle: that it was wrongheaded to come here of all places so soon after a fall. Wishing he’d seen it before barreling in at flank speed, his specialty.

  “I’m here about you, Leese,” he tried to cover. “Some way I can be of help, if you’ll let me.” To do what, exactly? flashed: Lorenz’s little skewer.

  “You see why I didn’t want you to know?” Her eyes starting to fill. “Damn, six years down the drain. I don’t believe it.”

  “It caught me off guard, Leese. I blew off some steam. It’s not like before. Come on, look at me.”

  “No, look at us,” she managed before the storm front closed in. “What the hell happened to us?”

  42

  It was past eight by the time Wil left Lisa’s and headed east. Seeing Luc Tien, hearing his proposal was the last thing he felt like doing. What he felt like was Jack Daniels, an ocean’s worth, tempered with a Titanic-sized iceberg and flushed down with San Miguel.

  Bud, Big Mouth…kerosene, if that was it.

  Open wide.

  He passed a liquor store and almost pulled over, hands damp on the wheel. He tried the radio, snapped it off after everything reminded him of something else. He opened the window to cool his sweat, took deep breaths. Tapped out after going through the books and pamphlets on Downs syndrome at Lisa’s, the ultrasounds and doctor’s reports, he simply drove, trying to stay objective, dispassionate in light of the options. Hardly his nature.

  At least she’d agreed to keep their dialog going.

  Something, anyway.

  So now what?

  Divider bumps caught him drifting, and he jerked back into his lane, exited 101 toward Sand Painting House. Away from the city, the glow from the Valley fire was even more pronounced. The air was dense with it, driven by a sundowner gusting over and down the canyons, bending the tops of the eucalyptus. Two county fire trucks passed him, honking, and as Wil approached Luc’s, he saw the first chilling flames—confirmed by the radio reports he’d tuned in again—flare from the ridgetop and fall back.

  Picturing Luc’s guests getting a taste of local color they hadn’t anticipated, he rounded the final bend to lit walls and gate, saguaro and ocotillo, the house. And something else: blackened chaparral.

  Shit…

  Smoke still rose from the surrounding burn; here and there a stump glowed red. As he got out of the car, an older-model Wagoneer with wood-grain siding pulled up and a woman about seventy with three collies in back let the window down part way.

  “Doubt you’ll find anybody inside,” she said, the dogs jostling to get a nose out the window. “I watched the fire crews run ‘em out, big gray gas-guzzlers plus a white something-or-other. That’s my place back there.”

  The Yukons. “Any sign of a small red car?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Brush fire,” she said. “Spark from over the hill must have started it. Smoke like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “When?” Wil shouted into a gust.

  “Couple of hours ago,” she shouted back. “I’m surprised they let you in.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it, I was here for the Coyote fire.” Putting it in gear, the dogs still restless, torn whether to bark at him. “My daughter in Lompoc’s got a spare bedroom. Do it up, I told her. What’s to save, right? You are following me out….”

  “Couple minutes, tops.”

  “Good luck, then. I don’t want to read about you.”

  As she swept around the bend, Wil walked to the gate, found it open to about shoulder width: nobody around, no security people, three of the four garage bays open. On instinct, he retrieved the Mustang .380 from the Bonneville, slipped it into the small of his back. A Mercedes station wagon passed the gate honking, mom and dad in front, excited kid faces staring out the back. Off to friends in town, Wil guessed, people to share the evacuation with, everybody talking at once. After they’d driven on, he slipped through and up the drive, past the dramatically lit cacti, night sentinels with halting arms.

  He checked the garage, found Mia’s Honda in the fourth bay, its engine cold, still no sign of anyone. Buzzy throb from the night bombers running water to the ridge, no sound from the house or pool area.

  He thought about that:

  Everyone gone? Not likely.

  Gate ajar? Less so.

  Figuring anyone left would have made him from the monitors and intercepted him, Wil slipped a round into the Mustang, approached the front door, and tried it. It was open but unbudging, obstructed beyond about an inch. Moving to a window where he could get an angle on it, he saw why. The houseman who’d brought them limeade was sitting up against it, blood where his neck had been.

  Wil perimetered the house, checked the pool area.<
br />
  The filter still hummed; refracted blue light spangled off the low walls. Smoke lazed from the barbecue pit to mingle with brush fire and chlorine smells. And still there was no one. Up on the ridge, the flames snapped-to with greater urgency, headlights converging through the haze being blown from that direction.

  At cop readiness, he eased through the glass doors and into the sitting area where he’d first talked to Luc; up and past a dining room, sitting area with the deep-set window through which he’d glimpsed Mia watching him; past the water dolls and old-looking framed weavings, spotlit niches, thin metal aspen leaves wired to faux branches, to the entryway.

  The houseman was between a trio of urns where the hall took a bend to the right and the front door. Wil checked the wound to his throat, checked that the man was indeed dead, listened for sounds.

  Nothing at first, his own breathing, then:

  Television…maybe a radio.

  Moving down the wing, he sensed it came from a smaller room off a larger den with partly shut doors, hall light revealing a table and matching chairs inside: a meeting room. He picked the den because of the flicker and the sounds, TV and computer setup visible from the door.

  On the TV screen, a talking head was expounding on tech-sector stocks, while the computer monitor listed telecom firms in order of their valuation—comparison data for the evaluator, Robb, who sat hunched in the chair facing it. Where Robb’s neck met his shoulders, the handle of what appeared to be a boning knife stuck out.

  Wil tightened his grip on the Mustang and kept going. Bedrooms showed signs of quick departure, a porno channel played silently in a wall unit. The master suite was in similar disarray, bath and spa lined with what looked to be adult toys, a computer setup in a windowless office adjacent to the suite. Against the wall inside the office were two work stations, one lit, its monitor on screen-saver, both stations linked to the computer tower between them.

  Later, he told himself.

  Luc and Mia.