Elsinore Canyon (22 page)

“There, now! She’s looking at me!” The ghost stared at Dana through its large, hollow eyes, eyes so pained they were drained of sense. “I know what she wants me to do.”

“Dana, there’s nothing there.”

“Dad, look! It’s Mom! Just the way she always was!”

“Your mother? Dana, you’re crazy wi— This is a product of your grief.”

“Not my grief. It’s guilt. I’m guilty, Dad, I’m guilty!”

“It was an accident, you’re not guilty of anything!”

“I don’t mean Polly! I don’t mean killing, I mean
not
killi—”

“Dana, sweetheart, listen. Your poor, troubled mind is doing this to you.”

“No.” The ghost’s unmoving eyes besought Dana. “I failed her. I was supposed to do something tonight.”

Oscar crashed into the room and reeled back at the sight on the floor, just as the phone’s trivial, maddening ringing started again. Dana’s father yelled at Oscar. “Get it! It’s nine-one-one calling back.”

“Holy shit,” Oscar whispered. He felt his away across the room, around the bed, over to the phone—and dropped.

“He’s fainted!” Dana cried. She ran to the side of the second unconscious man and fell to her knees.

“What the—now?” Her father crawled across the bed to look.

“Maybe nine-one-one can tell us—”

“No, no, no!
Don’t
touch the phone.” He flew to a gold-fitted sink and filled a crystal pitcher with water and ice. He descended at the other side of Oscar and sprinkled his face. The man didn’t move.

“Waterboard him, Dad!” Dana shoved her hand against the bottom of the pitcher and hurled water up Oscar’s nose. “Oscar. Oscar!”

“Uhhhh.” His eyes fluttered open.

Dana’s father stuck his shoulder under Oscar’s armpit and forced him to sit. “You fainted. It’s okay. Come on, you have to answer nine-one-one. You have to talk to them while Dana and I help Polly.”

Dana picked up the receiver of the jingling phone, stuck it in Oscar’s hand, and pushed it to his ear.

“What is your emergency?” came the insistent voice.

Oscar spoke in a haze. “I fainted.”

“NO!” Dana’s father dove back to Oscar, grabbed the receiver from him, and banged it down. “It’s Polly, got it? It’s Polly’s emergency! He’s been shot!”

“What?”

The phone was ringing again. “Tell them someone’s been shot.” He grabbed the receiver and packed Oscar’s clammy fingers around it.

Oscar labored to speak. “Someone’s been shot. No, not me. Someone…else.” Dana and her father ran back to Polly. Oscar turned onto his knees and poked his face over the bed. The father and daughter were kneeling at Polly’s head. His voice cleared slightly. “This person on the phone says not to move him.”

“What else?” yelled Dana’s father.

Oscar spoke into the phone. “Yeah. What?” He waved in Polly’s direction. “Keep his airway clear.” He huffed to one knee, then the other, and laid himself out on the bed.

Dana and her father stuck their fingers in Polly’s mouth. “Looks clear to me,” Dana said.

“Keep your voice
down.”

Oscar called over to them, still lying flat. “Is he breathing?”

“Yes!”

“Yes,” Oscar repeated into the phone. “Does he have a pulse?” he called.

“He must if he’s breathing,” Dana’s father said half to himself. He held Polly’s wrist.

“Is he conscious?”

“How am I supposed to tell? He’s not talking but he might be able to hear.” He shook Polly’s flabby face.

“They say to patch—what?—patch him up in case he has a chest wound so he won’t get a collapsed lung. Use—what?—use a plastic bag, they said. If you haven’t got adhesive tape.” He wheezed and sat himself up. Just about getting on top of—

Then they found the second wound.

Oscar fell back down with the phone. “Oh my God there’s another one. No, another wound, not another shot person. It’s still just Polly.” He mumbled over to Dana and her father. “Don’t elevate her legs. Make her comfortable. Don’t give her any food or water. I’m doing great. Oh, they say to stanch her bleeding. Apply pressure on her—wait, Operator, this ‘Polly’ is a man. Okay, his groin. Is anyone—is anyone—Just put a bandage or anything over the bleedy spot and press!”

Dana wiped her moist face; red streaks appeared on her temples. Her father pulled her dress. “Get out of the room now.” She turned to him. “Get washed and dressed so you can get on that plane. Throw your dress out the window as hard as you can—no, pack it, take it with you. You need to be as far away from me and this as possible, don’t talk to me about it, don’t ask. You need to go to Costa Rica first thing in the morning.”

Everything would soon be out of their control. Other people, other systems, outside procedures and authorities were moving in. The whap-whap of the med-evac chopper was audible to Oscar’s anticipating senses even as he hung up the phone. He heard an invading army as he rolled off the bed and made his way to Dana and her father and looked down on their upturned, fearful faces next to Polly’s bleeding, whitening one. Every cell phone in the room was ringing, the land line, the sound of footsteps, fists banging on doors below and Miguel shouting. Out of Oscar’s strained chest came the firm voice once again of the consummate servant, his eyes reflecting the hunched, gore-spattered conspirators and their victim. “She’s not going to Costa Rica,” he said evenly, his eyes firm and his voice clear in the center of the rising noise. “She’s not going tomorrow. She’s going to the Maldives. Tonight.”

In the minutes that ensued, Oscar pictured a speeding armada of vehicles on various coastal and canyon routes, blasting obstacles out of their path with sirens and lights as they closed in on Elsinore Canyon to forestall the task Claudia had charged him with. He couldn’t keep them out, so he would have to escape before they arrived. The canyon’s confusing access and geography would improve his chances.

In her room, Dana pawed feverishly through drawers and closets for something that wasn’t sprinkled with Polly’s blood. That ton of clothes she’d tossed for donation—Perla had boxed it up and then Dana had packed a bunch of things for Stanford and then practically everything that was left for the trip. Nothing left, vests, wool this velvet that, please just one dre—

Gale’s phone rang in the spa as Perla’s knuckles drummed narcotically over her scalp. “I’ll get it.” Perla stepped aside. Rosie, wondering about the noise, leaned down to put her shoes on. “Oscar?…Hey, was that noise…Hey—” She clicked off and jerked her head at Rosie. “We’ve gotta get out to the van pronto.”

It would fit, it was clean. She dashed. The van.

Oscar pushed his fist against his pounding heart. The keys were in the ignition. God
damn—

Rosie and Gale climbed into the back seat. “Is Dana coming?” “Here she comes.” Oscar started the engine, Dana was dashing out of the house with a wad of clothing, good, Claudia’s going to wake up happy. Dana
stopped.
She ran back to the house—Oscar jumped out of the van and shouted. “Dana!” Overhead, the lights of the med-evac chopper were visible far away, but pulling in steady and true. How close were the vehicular responders? Miguel would have breached the Hamlets’ bedroom by now, he’d be getting bloody with Garth, Perla was probably in there, too, and Marcellus and Phil—both down at the cottage? They’d be running out as soon as it was clear where that chopper was heading, Dana, DAMN IT.

Rosie watched as Dana’s frenzied figure reappeared in the light of the open doorway, then disappeared as it dashed forward towards the van. “She’s gonna fall on her face.”

Dana jumped into the back seat with Rosie and Gale and slammed the door. “I wanted to get my favorite pillow.”

“Your
pillow?”
Tires crunched gravel and Oscar bombed the van down the drive towards the curved road, keeping the headlights dark. He might have to ditch into another drive or some high weeds if he saw flashing lights oncoming. Once he hit the Coast Highway it would be fine, just reach the PCH and he could turn on the lights and cruise southward while sirens screamed past in the opposite direction. If. If.

Perla shook Dr. Claudia and put her hand one more time on the partly open mouth to make sure she was breathing. Why wouldn’t she wake up?