L.A. Mental (6 page)

Ten

T
he road dropped down the far side of the ridge and followed the stream through a wooded patch before hooking off to the open meadow where the Lodge stood. This was an especially charming spot, the banks lined with smooth granite boulders and the water dancing along swift and sparkling from spring runoff. Back in the days when you could get away with that sort of thing, Tom the First had built a little stone bridge here that dammed the stream into a deep pond about fifty yards across, an ideal, semi-natural swimming hole.

There was nobody in sight—but a woman's purse of deep red leather was sitting on one of the boulders, standing out like a traffic cone. The raised bank hid my view of the stream along that stretch; probably the purse's owner was nearby, but it made me a little nervous. I decided I'd better make sure nobody had fallen on the slippery granite or had some other kind of mishap.

When I stepped up onto the boulder, I saw that there was no such problem—a man and woman were standing at the water's edge and talking intensely, maybe arguing. They didn't notice me, and my first impulse was to quietly disappear.

But I lingered for a second, captured by the sight of the lady. She looked to be in her early thirties, with long lustrous dark hair, fantastic legs, and tawny skin set off by a lemon yellow sundress.

I knew right away who she was—an actress named Lisa DiFurio. Paul loved to drop names, and she was one of several he'd mentioned as being in the cast, although it hadn't even occurred to me that she'd be here today. Lisa was one of those familiar faces with plenty of celebrity—she'd appeared in several major movies and played the lead in some smaller releases—but who'd never quite made it over the edge into big-time stardom. I didn't know enough about either her or film in general to say if she was one of those people the camera loved, but right now, the sunlight and background scenery were definitely calling her sweetheart.

The man with her didn't exactly shine by comparison; he was fortyish, unstriking in any apparent way except for an Australian outback hat that looked straight off the shelf from Orvis. He seemed to be talking at her more than with her, and his gestures were impatient. The sound of the rushing water muffled what he was saying, but I thought I caught the words
symmetry
and
metaphor
.

But when Lisa put her fists on her hips and answered, her voice came across clear as a brick through a window. Her tone wasn't combative, just exasperated, and laced with humor.

“The audience doesn't
care
about symmetry, Dustin,” she said. “They want to see my tits.
That's
what they care about.”

Three was definitely a crowd in this scene, and I was about to start easing back toward my vehicle. But as Lisa turned away from the guy, tossing her hair, she saw me. She fixed me with a cool stare and came walking toward me, stopping about ten feet away. It looked like she was going to chew me out for eavesdropping, and she wouldn't be any less annoyed if I explained that I hadn't meant to. I'd still heard what I'd heard.

But instead, she spoke with that same sassy humor. “I thought I knew all my stalkers. You new on the job?”

Well, well.

“Yeah, first day,” I said.

“You better work on your technique. Just walking up in plain sight is pretty pathetic.”

“Sorry. I got stage fright and kind of choked.”

“Shake it off. It happens to everybody at first,” she said. “Just remember what's important. You're obsessed with me, and you love me desperately. The way you prove it is to scare the shit out of me, make my life absolute hell, and maybe try to kill me. And be
creative
—you know, FedEx me a scorpion or something. That's what really turns me on.”

Dustin was not amused. He stepped beside her protectively, with a stare at me that was somewhere between challenging and petulant.

“What
are
you doing here?” he said.

I bristled, but this was another pissing match I didn't want to get drawn into.

“I've got a meeting with Gunnar Kelso,” I said. “I stopped to make sure somebody was keeping an eye on this purse.”

“Oh. You're one of the Crandall people?”

People.
I nodded.

“Well, we're going to be shooting a scene on this location, and we need to discuss it in private,” he said, still officious but veering away from the bluster where he'd been headed. “Everybody else is over there.” He pointed along the road toward the Lodge.

“I can find my way. Thanks.”

“Is there anything around here we should worry about?” Lisa said. “I mean, I've heard about mountain lions attacking joggers. It probably sounds silly, but I'm a city girl.” Her delivery was a little wide-eyed, over-the-top anxious. Maybe that was just the way she was, but I got the hit that she was having fun with this—more than with the serious discussion I'd interrupted.

There were cougars in this general area, along with bears and rattlesnakes, but they were rare, and by and large they wanted to stay away from humans even more than vice versa. The biggest danger in these woods was ticks, and I seriously doubted that Lisa DiFurio was going to be hiking around in the brush.

“The mosquitoes can get fierce in the evenings,” I said. “Otherwise, compared to shopping in L.A., this place is Disneyland.”

That was as far as our little sparring match got—Dustin moved in to stake his claim.

“Lisa, can I remind you that we're here for a reason?” he said, exasperated and peremptory. “A very
expensive
reason? Like, making a movie?” He wheeled and walked away.

She rolled her eyes and gave me an apologetic shrug, but she followed him.

Eleven

A
s I parked among the other vehicles, Paul came striding toward me with his brisk, take-charge style. It was an act that tended to fall flat on me anyway, and especially now.

Paul was thirty-three but seemed older, and somehow, he always had; even as a kid, he'd been serious-minded and distant from the goofing off that Nick and I loved. His sandy hair was thinning in a way that his two-hundred-dollar haircut couldn't cover, and the lines in his face were getting deeper. I suspected that his studied self-importance was taking on a life of its own and weighing him down.

He leaned in the Cruiser's window while the engine was still running, looking really uncomfortable and beaded with the kind of sweat that suggested he'd started the day with bourbon on his cornflakes.

“I got the messages about Nick,” was the first thing he said, in a raspy whisper. “Nobody here seems to know about it—I'd like to keep it that way, okay?”

“Jesus, Paul.” It wasn't hard to believe that would be his immediate worry—just depressing. “Have you called Mom back yet?”

“I haven't had a second, Tom. This is very important business, and these are very important people. I'm busting my ass to stay on top of it.”

“That's just bullshit, and you know it. She's eating her heart out over this, so act like a fucking grown-up and spend a couple of your precious minutes telling her you love her and you're there for her.”

His face took on a nasty look, like he was about to get into it with me. But then he deflated and shifted his gaze away.

“Sorry—I really am wired,” he muttered.

“We all are,” I said, a little more kindly. “Just make it right, okay? Now, how about letting me out of the car?”

He stepped back so I could open the door. “So how's Nick doing?” he asked.

“He seems to be in pretty good shape, considering.” Given Paul's level of concern, I wasn't about to volunteer any details.

“What the hell
happened
?” he said. “He just flipped out?”

“More or less.”

“Has he told you anything?”

“Not yet,” I said. “It looks like he might have some memory loss.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a kind of amnesia. He's blank about the accident and awhile before that.”

Paul's nervous, shifting eyes seemed to freeze in place for a second or two. He looked stunned, giving an odd impression of a man who'd just been told he'd won the lottery and was trying to believe it. Then this gaze flicked past me, over my shoulder.

“Great—I mean, I'm glad to hear he's doing good,” Paul said hastily. “I'll call Mom, I promise. But here comes Gunnar.”

I turned. I'd guessed right—the man who'd been standing alone in the meadow was walking toward us.

Gunnar Kelso seemed to be around sixty, but that might have been off by years either way; he was one of those men who'd probably looked about the same for decades and would for the rest of his life. He was handsome in a rugged Viking way, lean-jawed and glacial-eyed. But most striking was that presence. It was hard to describe, but it was something I'd first started becoming aware of with a few of my professors at Stanford. They clearly thought well of themselves, with good reason; groundbreaking research was the norm, and if they didn't already have a Nobel or Templeton or other such accolade, they were in the running. But they never wore it on their sleeves—they had no interest in that. Their minds operated on a different plane, and that was where they focused.

Still, Kelso wasn't short on down-to-earth charm. He gave me a craggy smile and a firm handshake.

“A pleasure to meet you, Tom,” he said. “I hope you're not too appalled at what we've done to your beautiful property. I assure you we'll restore everything carefully.” His English was excellent, with just a trace of Nordic accent and the slightly formal usage of an educated European.

“No, it looks to me like you've got that under control,” I said. “Although I admit, there's a lot more—stuff—than I'd imagined.”

“Quite so. I've discovered that making a film is a journey that requires a great deal of baggage. If you do see anything you don't approve of, by all means tell me and I'll do my best to set it right. If you're interested, I'd be glad to give you a quick tour of our set. And I confess to an ulterior motive—Paul has told me that you're a psychologist, and I'd value your opinion on a question regarding our project. It's better shown than described.”

Was I interested? You bet. Of course this was another dose of Kelso's calculated charm; he wanted my agreement on the lease extension and was courting me by offering a gesture of respect. But that was fine; I was long past any illusions that people would like me just for myself. He was handling it gracefully, and at least he'd taken the trouble to make it more than just a sop—it implied engagement and even challenge. I wasn't much of a gamesman in the usual ways, but I was already sure that I'd enjoy a round with this fascinating man; no doubt I'd come out humbled but entertained, and maybe learn something in the process.

“I don't know that I can be much help with your question,” I said. “But sure, I'd like that.”

Paul had stayed quiet through all this; he seemed to be somewhat awed by Kelso. But he also seemed to have turned antsy, and when he did speak up it wasn't in his usual pushy way, but to extricate himself.

“I'm going to let you guys get acquainted,” Paul said, with a glance at Kelso as if asking permission. “There's a bar and buffet inside, Tom—come on in when you're ready.” He hurried toward the Lodge, back on task again, whatever the task was.

“Yes, why don't you go relax?” Kelso said to me. “I've lunched already, and I have a few minor things to take care of. Shall we meet here again in half an hour?”

I told him that sounded fine; he headed off and I walked to the Lodge, a dignified old building that was expertly built of massive fir logs squared off and precisely dovetailed at the corners. It had half a dozen bedrooms and a spacious main den with a high vaulted ceiling, huge stone fireplace, and trophy big game heads mounted on the walls. As I climbed the porch steps, I saw through the windows that there were a dozen people inside, chatting or cruising the buffet tables.

Then, just as I was reaching for the doorknob, I glimpsed Paul. He was off in a corner apart from the group, talking intently with a woman. Presumably, that was what he'd been in a hurry to do.

But wondering about the why of it blew right out of my mind, because his hand was resting on her rump.

I made an abrupt turn aside from the door, walked to the far end of the porch, and stood there, trying to get my mind around this new development.

Paul was married, with a three-year-old daughter.

Twelve

A
fter a minute or so, I walked back to the door and on into the room. The first thing that hit me was how goddamned attractive these people were. They must have been cast members; the men were hunky in that slightly bratty young-actor way, the women like icons of sheer beauty, all of them glowing with health and confidence. It drove home the point that I was in movieland, a world as alien to me as another galaxy.

Paul was still talking with his female friend, although he'd removed his hand from her behind, and he waved at me to come join them. She had more of a cool businesslike look than the other guests, and she was older—probably a couple of years older than Paul. But she was very attractive, with auburn hair cut to her jawline and a trim, almost boyish figure that she obviously took care to keep that way.

“Tom, Cynthia Trask,” Paul said. “CFO of Parallax Productions. Believe me, you don't want to play poker with her.”

She laughed disarmingly and said, “Oh, he's just a sore loser.” But her eyes never changed, and they were eyes that measured things carefully. She knew how to get what she wanted. Apparently, what she wanted was Paul, and what she was measuring was me.

“I have to trust him on that one, Cynthia,” I said. “He's a good cardplayer.”

“I think she hides an ace in her bra.” Paul gave me a hammy wink.

She rolled her eyes. “As if I'd need to.”

“Next time, I'm going to check,” he said, and slipped his hand around her waist.

That settled one question. I'd thought maybe my earlier glimpse had caught them in an unguarded moment, and the affair was secret. But this was an unmistakable signal. Paul wanted me to know.

They both watched me closely, probably expecting me to react with shock or disapproval. It was damned awkward, for sure.

I said nothing. They were consenting adults.

But privately, I was more concerned than I let on. I admitted that my take was cold, but also realistic, steering clear of moral judgments. I felt vaguely bad for Paul's wife, but I didn't have any loyalty issues there. I'd never cared for her—she was snobby and uninteresting—and the feeling was more than mutual; she had a near phobia about me and my offbeat lifestyle, and she'd done her best to widen the gulf between Paul and me. Cynthia Trask was a sharp contrast, and I even felt a touch of wishing him well. For all his worldly airs, he hadn't dated much before he'd gotten married, and I was sure he'd never tied in to anything like her. It looked like he was in for a head-spinning ride.

If this was just a fling, that was that. But if it turned out to be more—especially if they intended to get married—the situation changed dramatically. Besides all the emotional upheaval—including his little girl, who I
would
feel bad about—a divorce would be very expensive. The bulk of the Crandall fortune was in stable long-term holdings, but Paul still controlled tens of millions in more liquid assets that might be vulnerable to transfer of ownership or litigation. If Cynthia was digging for gold, it could get a whole lot more expensive still.

I wasn't going to make such an assumption about her so hastily and with no evidence, and things could even turn out the other way around—that she'd be a shrewd partner in the family business and rein in Paul's often-questionable judgment. But I decided I'd have a private word with our lawyer to get him thinking about potential consequences.

“By the way, Tom, nobody else knows about us outside this circle,” Cynthia said, indicating the room with a turn of her head. Presumably, that meant people associated with Parallax—and she was also including me. That gave me a hint as to why they were telling me at all. It was a sort of preemptive strike. They, or more probably Cynthia, figured that trying to draw me in was a better bet than having me stunned and angry when the news dropped on me from some other source.

Then Paul threw me another curve, a first inkling that he had another new passion besides Cynthia—that his involvement with Parallax went much deeper than straight business. He leaned toward me confidingly, with the air of someone passing on weighty and privileged information.

“See, Tom—awhile ago I started feeling like I had to do something with my life besides just make money,” he said. I managed not to wince. “Then I met Cynthia, and she'd been in the same place. She introduced me to Gunnar, and—well, the work he's doing is really important. Parallax is about a lot more than making movies.”

“How so?”

“I'll let her explain. She's been with Parallax a lot longer.”

Cynthia didn't show the same recent-convert fervor as Paul; she'd probably made this same pitch many times, and it was more like,
This is how it is—take it or leave it
.

“It's impossible to really explain,” she said. “You have to spend time around Gunnar—then it just starts to come to you. But basically, when he was at the Planck Institute years ago, he started trying to integrate philosophy with his research—not just theoretically, but in terms of real life. The mainstream scientific community didn't like it, and they hounded him out. But he kept going on his own, and he finally made a breakthrough. Do you know quantum mechanics, Tom?”

“I took some physics a long time ago, and I wasn't much good at it. I remember a few basics, but that's all.”

“Atoms and molecules have electrons orbiting around the nucleus, right? They're constantly bombarded by quanta, tiny bundles of energy. If an electron absorbs enough of them, it jumps to another orbit—a quantum leap. Gunnar realized that it's the same in our lives, except the energy is personal power. We can learn to accumulate it and make our own quantum leaps.”

“It's
science
,” Paul interrupted emphatically. “That's the key.”

Huh.

My first hit was an obvious one—that this had a cultlike ring. I was reasonably familiar with cult mentality in general and with several specific variations. I'd encountered all that fairly often both in clinical work and with the college kids I counseled, and it tied in to one of my major interests, the strange psychology of cognitive dissonance. Quasi-scientific spins weren't unusual in cults, especially in the more sophisticated ones. My own take on that tended toward cynical; by my lights, the object was precisely what Paul seemed so enraptured by—to give members a sense of superiority because they weren't buying into not just unfounded and often outlandish beliefs, but an intellectual system.

But the quantum physics angle was new to me, and at first glance it did seem to have some logic, backed by Kelso's impressive credentials. He sure didn't come across as the kind of messianic raver that tended to crop up in that field.

Then again, first glance also brought up a string of questions, starting with just what this “personal power” was, along with how you were supposed to acquire and apply it.

But before I could ask anything, Cynthia ended the conversation, nudging Paul with her elbow.

“Let's quit babbling—Tom's supposed to be enjoying himself,” she said.

“Right, right,” Paul agreed. “How about a drink, Tom?
I'm
ready.”

“Not just yet. Thanks.”

“Dig into the buffet, then. It's a choice spread.”

It was certainly that—caviar, pâté de foie gras, prosciutto, iced bowls of giant prawns, a dozen exotic side dishes; a steam table with grilled salmon, prime rib, and coq au vin; and a full bar with a wine selection that looked like it came from the Palms.

Tempting as it was, the burger I'd wolfed a couple of hours ago was holding me fine. I wasn't about to have a drink, either. Paul's involvement with Cynthia was troubling enough, but the double whammy of that and Parallax, with the two deeply intertwined, raised a serious red flag. I wanted my radar as sharp and clear as I could keep it.

Well, coming here had accomplished what I'd hoped for—taking my mind off Nick and Erica.