Mystery Girl: A Novel (37 page)

“Get down, stay down,” I told her, fumbling at the cord around her wrist. I loosened it a little. “Listen, Mona, you don’t know me but I’m here to help. Get under the car, and don’t come out till the shooting stops, OK?”

The white gauze head turned to me, like a ghost.

“Sam, is that you?”

“Lala?” I pulled the hood off. It was my wife. Alive. She screamed. Buck was there, over us, holding the film in one arm, pointing the gun with the other.

“Story over,” he said. “You should thank me. Snobs like you hate happy endings.”

I grabbed Lala’s hand and she squeezed it. Buck smiled. Then I smiled back and he turned, just in time to see what I saw, Zed emerging from behind the scrub and running straight at him. Zed hit him hard, tackling him, and the two men stumbled, gripping each other, like boxers in a clutch or weary lovers, clinging together through one last dance. They went over the edge together with their film.

89

A HELICOPTER ARRIVED FIRST
, and the medics patched up Lonsky, but decided it might be wiser not to try to airlift him. He agreed. “I assure you my vital arteries are well insulated. I will be fine.” He was right, as usual. When the cops and ambulances showed up he was taken to
a local hospital where the bullet was quickly removed with no major damage. He then had Milo drive him straight to another hospital, Green Haven, where he intended to take a very long rest.

“I’m sorry that you couldn’t save your Mona,” I told him as a team of rangers and medics loaded him.

“Yes,” he said. “But we saved yours. And I suppose even I must be wrong once in my life.” He blinked, and for a second I thought I saw a feeling flicker through him. Then he fixed his gaze on mine and shook my hand firmly. “Despite a few early missteps,” he said, “your conduct throughout this case has been quite competent, generally speaking. You have the makings of a good detective.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That means a lot.”

He nodded as they shut the door.

The bodies of Russ and Nic were bagged and removed. It took longer to recover Buck and Zed but when they did they found Zed had an empty bottle of morphine tablets. His cancer was far gone and he had to have been in great pain.

The news story that they eventually put out suggested that Buck Norman had died while scouting locations when he was attacked by bandits or would-be kidnappers who shot his bodyguard. Some suggested he’d even died trying to save his “unknown companion,” the nameless blond woman who was also killed. Others said she was an actress whom he was about to transform into a star. America’s storyteller would be remembered the way we knew him and everyone involved seemed happy to let it rest there. The film was damaged beyond repair, hung in a long, tattered strip down the side of the mountain.

90

FINALLY, AFTER THE QUESTIONS
, the bandages, the hydration, the cops and ambulances, the promise to be reachable when needed, they finally
told Lala and me that we too could go. Everyone cleared out and we found ourselves alone, standing in front of our old station wagon, in the middle of the desert, on top of a tower of rock. The sun beat down like a hammer on a nail head. The only sign of human life within sight was our car and the road beneath it.

“Well,” I said. “Here we are. This is kind of awkward.”

“Nice tooth,” Lala said.

I smiled. “Thanks.” Instinctively, I walked toward the driver’s side and she to the passenger’s, as we had every day for years.

“Wait,” I said. “I can’t drive.” I held up my hands. We walked around, passing each other, and got in. I gave her the keys.

“What happened to your fingers, anyway?” she asked.

“It’s a long story,” I said. My eyes flicked down, then up to meet her eyes. I looked at her. “Actually I have a confession to make.”

She looked back at me.

“So do I.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to express my immense gratitude to my editor, Ed Park, for first adopting this book and then making it so much better, as well as to his entire championship team. I am also eternally grateful to Doug Stewart for continuing to make it all possible and to everyone at Sterling Lord Literistic, especially the amazing Madeleine Clark. I want to thank Eric Kosse and William Fitch for endless reading, encouragement and comfort; Rivka Galchen, my first and favorite responder; and Jennifer Martin for everything, always. I wish particularly to thank Irene Donoso for checking my Spanish. As usual, all errors of grammar, spelling, taste and judgment are my own. Lastly, I want to thank my family, who put up with the most for the longest, for their endless supply of patience and love.

DAVID GORDON
was born in New York City. He attended Sarah Lawrence College and holds an MA in English and comparative literature and an MFA in writing, both from Columbia University. His first novel,
The Serialist,
won the VCU Cabell First Novel Award and was a finalist for an Edgar Award. It was also the first novel to win all three major foreign mystery awards in Japan, where it is currently being made into a film. His stories have appeared in the
Paris Review, Fence,
and elsewhere. He has worked in film, fashion, publishing, and pornography.