"What exactly did you tell him?"
"That the father was unknown, the mother a tart who'd fancied herself an actress. That she'd died soon after the baby was born."
"You still didn't tell him about Sharon?"
"No, no."
"You weren't worried Sherry would tell him?"
"How could she tell him something she didn't know. It was out of her head—I'm sure of that because she never mentioned it, and when she was angry she threw everything else in my face."
"What if she chanced to open up an old Blue Book?"
She shook her head. "She didn't like books, didn't read—never learned to read well. Some sort of blockage the tutors couldn't break through."
"But Kruse found out anyway. How?"
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"I have no idea."
But I did: a college Careers Day, spotting his former patient. Discovering it wasn't his former patient at all, but a carbon copy, mirror-imaged...
She was saying, "He bled me for years, the monster. I hope he's writhing in eternal hellfire."
"Why didn't brother Billy fix that for you?"
"I... I don't know. I told Billy. He always told me to have patience."
She turned away from me. I doled out more martini but she didn't drink it, just held her glass and straightened her posture. Her eyes closed and her breathing got shallow. A boozehound's tolerance, but it wouldn't be long before she passed out. I was phrasing my next question for maximum impact when the door swung open.
Two men stepped into the sun-room. The first was Cyril Trapp in white polo shirt, pressed designer jeans, Topsiders, and black Member's Only jacket. California Casual betrayed by the tension in his white-blotched face and the blue steel revolver in his right hand.
The second man kept his hands in his pockets as he examined the room with the practiced eye of a pit boss. Older, mid-sixties, tall and wide—big bones padded with hard fat. He wore a doeskin-colored western suit, brown silk shirt, string tie gathered by a large smoky-topaz clasp, peanut-butter-colored lizard boots, and a straw cowboy hat. His skin tone matched the boots.
Forty pounds heavier than Trapp, but the same hatchet jaw and thin lips. His eyes settled on me. His stare was that of a naturalist studying some rare but hideous specimen.
"Mr. Hummel," I said. "How are things in Vegas?"
He didn't answer, just moved his lips the way denture wearers do.
"Shut up," said Trapp, pointing the gun at my face. "Put your hands behind your head and don't move."
"Friends of yours?" I said to Hope Blalock. She shook her head. Her eyes were electric with fear.
"We're here to help you, ma'am," said Hummel. His voice was badlands basso profundo, coarsened by smoke and drink, and desert air.
Ramey came in, all spotless black serge and starched white. "It's all right, madam," he said.
"Everything's in order." He looked at me with tight fury and I knew who'd called in the goon squad.
Trapp stepped forward, waved the revolver. "Get those hands behind you."
I didn't move fast enough to suit him, and the weapon was pressed hard under my nose.
Hope Blalock gasped. Ramey went to her side.
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Trapp put a little more weight behind the gun. Looking at all that metal crossed my eyes. I tightened reflexively. Trapp leaned harder.
Royal Hummel said, "Easy." He came around behind me. I heard a ratchet slip, felt cold metal around my wrists.
"Not too tight, son?"
"Perfect. Uncle Roy"
"Shut the fuck up," said Trapp.
Hope Blalock winced.
Hummel said, "Easy, C.T.," and patted the back of my neck. His touch bothered me more than the gun. "Close your eyes, son," he said, and I obeyed. The pressure of the revolver was replaced by something tight and elastic around my head. Banding my eyes so tight I couldn't open them.
Strong hands gripped me under my arms. I was lifted so that only my shoe tips touched the floor, propelled forward like a kite in a headwind.
It was a very big house. They dragged me for a long
time before I heard a door open, felt hot air on my face. Trapp started laughing.
"What?" said his uncle, stretching the word to two
syllable's. "How we got this joker. Fucking butler did it."
THEY SEARCHED me, confiscated my watch, keys, and wallet, and put me in a Venice that smelled brand-new.
"Settle down, son," said Hummel, easing me into the back seat and removing the cuffs. He slammed the door. I heard him go around to the front; then the engine started—muted, as if my ears were stuffed.
I peeled back an inch of blindfold and inspected the interior: blackened windows that let in only hints of light. A black glass partition sealing off the rear compartment. A cell lined in gray vinyl—rock-hard bench seats, nylon carpeting, cloth roof. No dome light. No ornamentation at all, not a clue to make or model. The plain-wrap styling of a midsize economy American sedan—a bottom-of-the-line Dodge, Ford, or Olds, but with a twist: no door handles. No ashtrays or seat belts. No metal at all.
I ran my hands over the doors, trying to find some hidden latch. Nothing. A hard rap on the partition brought no response. San Quentin on wheels.
We began to move. I peeled off the blindfold. Heavy-
duty black elastic, no label. It already stank of the fear in my sweat. I heard the spatter of gravel, muted like the ignition. Soundproofing.
I pressed my face to the window, saw only my reflection in the darkened glass. I didn't like the
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way I looked.
We picked up speed. I sensed it the way you sense acceleration in an elevator—a pit-of-the-stomach lurch. Cut off from the world, I had only my fear to listen to; I might have been in a crypt.
A sudden turn made me slide across the seat. When the car straightened, I kicked the door, then karate-kicked it hard. No give. I pounded the windows until my hands hurt, attacked the partition. Not even a hint of vibration.
I knew then that I'd be there as long as they wanted me to. My chest went tight. Any road noise the soundproofing let in was blotted out by the pounding of my heart.
They'd robbed me sensorily; the key was to regain my bearings. I searched for mental signposts; the only thing left was time. But no watch.
I began counting. One thousand one. One thousand two. Settled back for the ride.
After about forty-five minutes the car came to a stop. The left rear door opened. Hummel bent low and peered in. He wore mirrored sunglasses and held a long-nosed chrome-plated Colt.45
parallel to his leg.
Behind him was cement flooring. Sepia-tinged darkness. I smelled auto fumes.
He raised his other hand to his crotch and unbound his shorts. "Transfer time, son. Gonna have to cuff you again. Bend forward."
No mention of the fact that I'd removed the blindfold. I stuffed it behind the seat and did what he asked, the good little prisoner. Hoping compliance would buy me the privilege of vision. But the moment my hands were bound, on went the elastic.
I said, "Where are we going?" Stupid question. Helplessness does that to you.
"For a ride. C'mon, C.T., let's hustle."
A door slammed. Trapp's voice said, "Let's move this turkey." Amused. A moment later I smelled Aramis, heard the buzz of his whisper in my ear. "Fucking butler did it. Isn't that a hoot, faggo?"
"Tsk, tsk," I said. "Bad language for a born-again." Sudden bee-bite pain behind my ear: a finger flick. "Shut
the fu—"
"C.T., said Hummel.
"All right."
Double arm-grip. Footsteps echoing. The auto fumes
stronger.
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An underground parking lot.
Twenty-two paces. Stop. Wait. Mechanical hum. Gears grinding, something sliding, ending with a clang.
Elevator door.
A push forward. Slide shut. Click. Rapid Climb. Another push. Out in the heat, the stench of gasoline so powerful I could taste it.
More cement. A loud whoosh, growing louder. Very loud. Gasoline... No, something stronger.
An airport smell. Jet fuel. Whoosh whoosh. Gusts of cool air slicing through the heat.
Propellors. A slow chug picking up speed. Helicopter
rotor.
They dragged me forward. I thought of Seaman Cross, driven blindfolded to a landing strip less than an hour from L.A. Flown to Leland Belding's dome. Somewhere out in the desert.
The rotor noise grew deafening, scrambling my thoughts. Gusts of turbulence slapped my face, plastered my clothes to my body.
"There's a step here," Hummel shouted, putting pressure under my elbow, pushing me, lifting me. "Step up, son. There you go—good."
Climbing. One step, two step. Mother, may I... Half
a dozen, still more.
"Keep going," said Hummel. "Now stop. Put your foot forward. There we go. Good boy."
Hand on my head, pushing down. "Duck, son."
He placed me in a bucket seat and belted me in. A door slammed. My ears clogged. The noise level dropped a notch but remained loud. I heard radio stutter, a new voice from the front: male, military-flat, saying something to Hummel. Hummel answered back. Planning. Their words drowned out by the rotor.
A moment later, we lifted off with a surge that bounced and buffeted me like a pachinko ball.
The copter swayed, rose again, gained stability.
Suspended in midair.
I thought again of Seaman Cross's nose dive from celebrity to death. Missing notes in a public storage vault. Books recalled. Locked up, raped. Head in the oven time.
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If you 're right about a tenth of this, we're dealing with people with very long arms...
The copter kept climbing. I fought the shakes, worked hard at pretending this was an E ride at Disneyland.
Up, up and away.
We'd been traveling for more than two hours by my slow count when more radio noises burped from the front of the cabin and I felt the copter take a drop in altitude.
More radio stutter. One decipherable word: "Roger."
We dipped for landing. I remembered reading somewhere that copters cruised between 90 and 125 knots. If my counting was near-accurate, that meant a 200- to 250-mile trip. I mentally traced a circle with L.A. at its center. Fresno to Mexico longitudinally. From the Colorado Desert to somewhere over the Pacific on the east-west axis.
No shortage of desert in three directions.
Another sharp drop. Moments later we hit solid ground.
"Smooth," said Hummel. In seconds I felt his breath, hot and spearminted, on my face, heard him grunt as he loosened the belt.
"Enjoy the ride, son?"
"Not bad," I said, borrowing someone else's voice— some Milquetoast's quavering tenor. "But the movie stank."
He chuckled, took hold of my arm, guided me out of the copter and down.
I stumbled a couple of times. Hummel kept me upright and moving, not breaking half a step.
The old heave-ho march—he'd probably used it on a thousand Vegas drunks.
We walked for a slow-count of four hundred. The air was very hot, very dry. Silent.
"Stay here," he said, and I heard the horsey clump of his departing boot-steps, then nothing.
I stood there, unguarded, for a three-hundred count. Three hundred more.
Ten minutes. Left to my own devices.
Another five minutes and I started to wonder if he was coming back. Three more and I hoped he was.
His walking away meant escape would be folly. I tried to picture where I was—at the edge of a precipice? Playing target at the end of a shooting range?
Or simply dropped in the middle of nowhere, gift-wrapped brunch for the scorpions and the buzzards.
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Donald Neurath's obituary came to mind... unspecified causes while vacationing in Mexico.
Maybe Hummel was bluffing. I considered moving. Uncertainty locked my joints. I was a man with one foot on a landmine, immobility my life sentence.
I stood there, counting, sweating, trying to maintain. Enduring the molasses drip of time slowed by fear. Finally I forced myself to take a single step forward—a baby step. Mother, may I?
Please?
Solid ground. No fireworks.
Another step. I swung one foot out in a slow arc, testing—no tripwires—was inching forward when an electric whine sounded from somewhere behind me.
Stop and go. Whine stop whine.
A golf cart or something like it. Coming closer. Footsteps.
"Cute little dance, son," said Hummel. "We could use the rain."
He put me in the cart. It had shallow seats and no roof.
We rode under a blazing sun for about fifteen minutes before he stopped, eased me out, and led me through revolving doors into a building air-conditioned to frigidity. We passed through three more doors, each one opening after a series of clicks, then made a quick right-hand turn, went thirty more paces, and entered a room that smelled of disinfectant.
"Stay loose and no one'll hurt you," he said.
Multiple footsteps shuffled forward. Off came the handcuffs. Several sets of hands pinioned my arms and legs, braced my head, tilted it back. Fingers filled my mouth, pried under my tongue. I gagged.
My clothes were stripped off. The hands ran a marathon over my body, ruffled my hair, probed my armpits, my orifices—deftly, quickly, without a hint of prurient interest. Then I was dressed again, buttoned and zipped, all of it over in a couple of minutes.
I was walked through two more clicking doors and deposited in a big, deep chair—leather, tannically fragrant.
The door closed.
By the time I yanked off the blindfold, they were gone.
The room was big, dark, done in Neo-Home-on-the-Range: plank walls, Navajo rugs over distressed pine floors, wagon-wheel chandelier brass-chained from a beamed cathedral ceiling, a set of armchairs fashioned of cowhide stretched on a stag antler frame, wall-size oil paintings of tired-looking cowboys, and bucking-bronco bronzes.
In the center of the room was a big claw-footed, leather-topped desk. Behind it a wall display of
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flintlocks and engraved antique rifles ran from floor to ceiling.