Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 (22 page)

 
          
The
naked giggling girl ran across the patio, past the pool, around the edge of the
rose garden, and off across the rolling lawn. The naked Jack pursued her,
gasping, grinning, dropping to his knees from time to time, struggling up
again,
lumbering
on, following that round and muscular
behind.

 
          
The
girl had been told to see to it that Jack got his exercise, so that's what she
was doing. When he got too close, she would dart away, laughing slightly,
sticking her tongue out at him,
wriggling
a lot to
encourage him. And when he would fall back, when he would seem to lose heart
for the chase, she would slow, her looks would become seductive, her movements
lewd, and slowly the light would come back into his eyes, his trembling limbs
would firm themselves, and he would go on with the chase. Because, as they both
knew, the other part of her instruction was that eventually he must catch her.

 
          
Out
across the lawn she went. The distant high wall, which was topped by broken
glass embedded in the cement, was barely visible through the surrounding layers
of ornamental brush. Panting, grinning, eyes rolling, arms pumping, Jack
followed, weaving from side to side, slowing, struggling, slowing, stopping,
falling forward,
landing
on his face on the lush green
lawn.

 
          
The
girl ran on another few paces, her bright laughter rising toward the blue sky,
but then she looked back and saw Jack lying there, face down, and she stopped,
turned around, put her small fists on her lovely hips and considered the
situation.
A ruse?
A temporary rest?
But he wasn't moving, not at all, so finally she raised her voice and shouted
toward the house, “He fell down!"

 
          
Immediately,
the door in the end of the house beyond the multicar garage, the door leading
to the security offices, opened and four young hefty men came trotting out.
They all had short, military-style haircuts. All wore gray slacks, white
shirts, narrow neutral ties, and beige or gray sports jackets. The four of them
came trotting in unison across the lawn toward Jack as the naked girl also
walked toward the unconscious man, wondering if her job here was finished now.

 
          
The
security men reached Jack, flipped him over, checked him for vital signs,
discussed the situation briefly with one another, and came to the conclusion
this was no more than a normal kind of passing out, requiring no particular
medical attention. Therefore, as the girl wandered away to get dressed, each of
the four security men picked up one of Jack's limbs and carried him like a
firemen's net across the lawn and through the main front door of the house.

 
          
Where Buddy was just coming down the main stairs, in a light gray
summer suit, accompanied by two servants carrying his matched luggage.
Hoskins, at the foot of the stairs to wish Mr. Pal bon voyage, became the hub
of all motion, as Buddy and his entourage approached from above and Jack in the
grip of his security quartet was borne in from without.

 
          
Hoskins
gave his first attention to the conscious person, saying, “Enjoy your trip,
sir."

           
His voice and manner grim, his cold
eyes on Jack, Buddy said, "Oh, I will, Hoskins, believe me. I will.”

 
          
"Yes, sir."
Hoskins raised an eyebrow at the right
front security man. "Yes?" he asked.

 
          
"No
sweat," the security man said. "We'll just put him to bed."

 
          
"Bed,"
said the ghost of Jack, and smiled.

 
          
The
security men made their way up the stairs with their burden. Buddy paused to
watch them go, and the servants paused with him, carrying his bags. Jack and
the security men reached the top of the stairs and disappeared on down the wide
white hall. Buddy looked at Hoskins. He said, "Give Jack a message for
me."

 
          
"Certainly, sir."

 
          
"Tell
him," Buddy said, "not to kill
himself
before I get back."

 
          
Hoskins
nodded, accepting receipt of the message. Buddy turned about and left, the
servants trailing with his bags.

 
          
"T
hat was six weeks ago," I
say, feeling dreamier again. “When
Buddy went away."

           
“And Buddy came home last
night," O'Connor says.

 
          
This
surprises and pleases me, and yet at the same time makes me nervous and scared.
But why should I be nervous and scared? Buddy Pal is my oldest friend in
all the
world. “Gee, did he?" I ask. “Are you
sure?"

 
          
“You
talked with him last night."

 
          
“I
did?" Wherever I look, there are deep black holes. “I can't
remember," I say.

 
          
O'Connor
leans forward. This is important to him, for some reason. “Try," he says.

 
          
I
try, but it doesn't help. Sadness, sadness; all I can feel is sadness. I say,
“I had a breakdown once, you know. Did I tell you?"

 
          
“You
didn't tell me," O'Connor says, “but I do know. It was after Miriam Croft
died."

 
          
Oh,
I can feel that, live it again, those terrible moments in the back of the
limousine, rushing across
Connecticut
. She was making such
noises.
I wanted her to stop making those awful
noises,
and then she did, and that was worse.
“Miriam!”
I screamed, trying to reach her, reach her,
pull
her
back.
“Miriam, don't die! Don't die!
Not you, too!”

 
          
O'Connor's
voice brings me back. He says, "Why did Miriam's death upset you so much?
Why did it give you a nervous breakdown, so bad that after the funeral you had
to be hospitalized for five months? The doctors told you you weren't to blame
for her death, so what was there about it that affected you so strongly?"

 
          
"I
don't know," I say. The nervousness is getting stronger. I don't want to
talk anymore, I don't want to be
interviewed
anymore, I don't like the way this is going,
I
don't
like any part of it. "I don't know," I say, "I don't know, I
don't know."

 
          
"Could
it be, Mr. Pine," O'Connor asks me, leaning over those huge gray knees of
his, that nothing face pressing toward me, "could it be that it reminded
you of something
earlier
in your
life?
Some other event, involving a woman, and death, and the
backseat of a car?"

 
          
Rattled,
my jaw trembling, I manage to say, "I don't know what you're talking
about!"

 
          
"I
think you do."

 
          
"No!
I'm Jack Pine! I'm the movie star! I live here in this house and they take care
of me! That's all there is! That's all there is!"

 
          
"Let's
go back, Mr. Pine," O'Connor tells me, "to the very first time, your
very first sexual experience with a woman."

 
          
Shaking
my head, shaking my fists, I say, "I don't want to.

 
          
"You
were so excited, you lost control," O'Connor says. "Do you remember
telling me that? It was like an explosion, you said."

 
          
I
cover my eyes with my hands, but still I can see. My whole body can see it now.

 
          
Jack,
sixteen years old, reared up over the waiting Wendy in the backseat of the car.
His feet drummed against the door she'd just made him slam, switching out the
light above his head. Wildeyed, staring in the dark, his nose filled with a
suffocating musk, he trembled all over, his body moving in rapid disorganized
jerks. "I can't—" he cried, his voice breaking back to childish
falsetto, "It's so—
You're
so—"

 
          
"Get
with
it, willya?" Wendy
demanded, half laughing, teasing, poking at his chest with sharp-knuckled
fingers. "Come
on\”

 
          
Jack's
arms flailed around. He beat himself on the head in his mad struggle to get
control of himself. The Buddy- facade he'd come in here with had failed him and
fled. Grabbing Wendy's shoulders in his fists, clutching tight, he yanked her
this way and that, gibbering in frenzy, shaking her like Raggedy Ann.

 
          
"Jesus!"
Wendy cried. "Watch it! Hey, the
window crank
!
Look out, you're—
What
are you—
Gahhh
/"

 
          
Jack
shook and thrust with rhythmic mania, flinging the two of them about so that
the car rocked on its springs, and down the road Buddy grinned to himself at
the sound of it. But every time Jack lifted Wendy's body now, though in the
darkness and in his own frenzy he didn't notice, her head merely flopped, back
and forth on her shoulders.

 
          
“Yes!"
Jack cried. “Yes!
Yes\”
And he
collapsed atop her, gasping, shuddering all over, spent.

 
          
Slowly,
at long last, he lifted himself again onto his elbows, perspiration glinting on
his brow and his neck. “Wendy," he said, low and hoarse and still winded,
“Wendy, I'll never forget you, I'll never—"

 
          
He
stopped. He stared. His eyes bulged with horror. His scream filled the car like
knives.

 
          
I
break things. I break things.”

 
          
My
lips are loose and blubbery, my eyes are crushed grapes, strings of foul
seaweed hang down in my throat, my head is a cavern full of crows, every nerve
and sinew in my entire body is untied and aching and trembling. I am like the
body of someone who has been electrocuted. This is what it feels like
afterward, after the lightning has filled your body and done its work.
"Punish me!” I cry. "Punish me!"

 
          
I
stare from my bleeding eyes and O'Connor is there, still there, always there.
He's plagued me my entire life long. "But you can't punish me,” I tell
him. "I'm a property. I'm too valuable to punish. Nobody can touch me. "

           
"Buddy helped you that night,
didn't he?” O'Connor asks.

           
"I don't want to talk anymore.”

           
"You've come this far,” he
says. "Buddy helped you get rid of Wendy's body. That's why he's always
had such a hold over you, why you could never refuse him anything he wanted.
Why you've always been grateful to him, and always afraid of him."

 
          
"He's
my-me-my-my old-old-old—"

           
"It was Buddy, wasn't it, who
thought of what to do that night?"

           
Yes,
I think, while my mouth wallows and drools, sloppy, piggish, revolting . . .
Yes, I think. I nod.

 
          
Jack
trembled and was useless, nearly dropping the girl's body, but Buddy was
strong. He held her ankles in the crook of one arm, opening the trunk of the
car with his other hand, while Jack blubbered and shook, his arms around the
girl's stiffening thickening body under the armpits. Already she felt
different, heavier and more animal and less real. Already she was less real.

 
          
"I
always break things," Jack blubbered.

 
          
"You
get too excited, Dad," Buddy told him, the trunk lid rising like a mouth
opening. "You got to learn to take it easy."

 
          
Jack
moaned. He stood there sobbing and moaning while Buddy eased her legs into the
trunk and then had to unclamp Jack's hands to make him let go of her torso.
Buddy stuffed her into the trunk, pushed her hair in after, turned her so the
lid would close,
slammed
the lid. "I'll
drive," he said.

 
          
Jack
just stood there, his head shaking, mouth working, shoulders sagging, arms
hanging limply at his side. Buddy gazed at him with contempt,
then
deliberately kicked him on the shin. “Ow!" Jack
said, and stared at Buddy wideeyed.

 
          
“Get
in the car," Buddy told him. “Front, passenger side."

 
          
Jack
obeyed, and Buddy got behind the wheel and started the engine. Jack said, in a
tiny voice, “What are we going to do, Buddy?"

 
          
“Get
rid of it," Buddy said, and backed the car around in a half circle.

 
          
“We
don't go to the police?"

 
          
“Never!"
Buddy shifted into park and looked at his
friend. “You want to go to prison? Come out when you're thirty-six?"

 
          
“No,
Buddy."

 
          
“You
can go to the cops now," Buddy told him, “or never. You don't change your
mind tomorrow. You don't change your mind
ever”

 
          
“Yes,
Buddy."

 
          
“Which
is it?"

 
          
“I
don't want to go to prison," Jack said. He was very humble, as though he
were
talking to God, and God was impatient with him.

 
          
“So
it's no cops," Buddy said. “Is that right?
Just to get
things straight."

 
          
“No
cops, Buddy," Jack said.

 
          
“Okay,"
Buddy said, and shifted into drive, and took them away from there.

 
          
Out
on the highway, Jack said, humbly, “Why are you doing this for me, Buddy?"

 
          
“I'm
your best friend," Buddy said. He was paying attention to the traffic and
the speed limit. He didn't want to get stopped by a highway patrolman.

 
          
“You
are my best friend, Buddy," Jack said.

 
          
Buddy
laughed. “And it's a movie!" he said.

 
          
They
left the highway where the signs pointed for the lake, then turned off that
road and climbed high to another place where lovers sometimes liked to come.
But none were here tonight.

           
The road made a sharp turn to the
right. Ahead, a wide dirt parking area narrowed on the left side to a cliff,
with the lake far below, glinting cold in the starlight.

 
          
"Open
the windows and get out," Buddy said.

 
          
Jack
did it and came around to the driver's side, where Buddy was wedging a rock
onto the accelerator, making the engine roar. Jack said, "What's
happening, Buddy?"

 
          
"That
ought to do it," Buddy said, and straightened. The engine roared as though
it were afraid. Buddy said, "Wendy always said she'd run away from home.
So she did. Stole her old man's car and ran."

 
          
Jack's
jaw trembled, his eyes filled with tears. "She was so nice," he said.

 
          
"She
was a sicko," Buddy said. "Say good-bye to her, if you want."

 
          
Jack
moved back to the trunk of the car, remembering how Wendy had looked when he'd
first opened the car door and the light had gone on, and there she was.
And now . . .

 
          
The
engine roar was like screaming. It made the car vibrate; it seemed to heave.
Buddy had left the lights on, and the red and white lights reflected from the
enigmatic trunk and the gleaming bumper chrome. Jack reached his hand out
toward the trunk, wishing with such intensity that it broke his heart, wishing
it all undone.

 
          
"Here
goes," Buddy said. He reached in through the open driver's door to shift
to drive.

 
          
screams, screaming, engine roars, flashing
lights in red and white reflecting from the bumper chrome, slicking on the
heaving trunk of the car, madness, danger, movement, peril, speed . . .