Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 (23 page)

 
 
 
         
I
feel so empty. I feel like a tree after the sap has been drained away.
Big, woody, stupid, dull tree, too dumb to fall over.
My
eyes are open, but I see nothing. Even my forehead can't see anymore. Hearing
how dull my voice is, hearing how I'm a tree and I'm empty but there's no echo,
hearing how even the echo is drained out of me, I say, "Nobody ever knew
about that, except Buddy and me."

 
          
"And
gradually," the voice says, "the memory faded. Nobody linked you to
Wendy's disappearance, you got so you could sleep at night again,
Buddy's
strength carried you through."

 
          
"Buddy
never mentioned it again, not once."

 
          
"Buddy
didn't have to mention it."

 
          
"No,"
I say. "That's right."

 
          
"Still,"
the voice says, "time went by, and everything was all right. You were
going to be okay. But then it happened again."

 
          
"Yes,"
I say.

           
"It wasn't your fault this
time," the voice says, "but the ingredients were the same.
Sex.
The woman.
The
backseat of the car.
And she was dead.”

 
          
"Miriam.
Don't die."

 
          
"But
she did. And you had your breakdown."

 
          
"I
could never weave those goddamn baskets."

 
          
"And
when you came out of the hospital at last," the voice says, "you were
still terrified of women. You believed you were doomed to destroy them, not
wanting to. That's why you tried that interlude with George Castleberry."

 
          
"Also,"
I am forced to say, "Biff Novak was a great part."

 
          
The
voice ignores that. Unstoppable, the voice rolls on: "And since then, you
have been attracted only to strong women, too strong for you to hurt. And when
they hurt you, as eventually they did, you felt you deserved it, because of
Wendy."

 
          
"Did
I?" I am surprised to find that I am capable of surprise. "Maybe I
did," I say, and realize that one of these days I must rethink all my
relationships. But not just at this particular moment.

 
          
"It
was the girl who went out the window at Big Sur," the voice says,
"who brought it all back for you yet again."

 
          
So different, and yet the same.
The same arcing fall,
reaching out and down, so slow and then so fast, plummeting toward the water.
The car in the night, its lights on, dropping toward its own
illuminated reflection in the still, deep lake.
The
girl in the sunlight amid the jewels of broken glass, dropping toward the
hungry roiling sea.
The same.
Wendy.
Dead again.
"It keeps happening," I say. "No
matter what I do, it keeps happening."

 
          
"After
Big Sur," the voice says, "you withdrew to this estate."

 
          
"I'm
safe here."

 
          
"You
almost never leave,” the voice says. It knows so much about me, this wonderful
voice. It knows so much, and it stays so calm. If
I
knew that much about me, I wouldn't stay calm. Oh, boy. You
couldn't
get
me calm, if I knew all
that. And the voice goes calmly on, saying, “You keep yourself drugged—"

 
          
“Mellowed.
Mellowed."

           
“It's been hurting your career, Mr.
Pine," the voice says. “Buddy didn't like that."

 
          
The
room to the right of the front entrance, a large square pleasant place with
views of the lawn and main drive, had been turned into an office. Desks, filing
cabinets, library table, computer, shelves filled with scripts and stationery
supplies; it might have been a Midwestern insurance agency. Jack himself rarely
entered this room, his interest in the mundane details of real life being
minimal at best, but today his drifting took him without particular plan or
purpose through just another doorway, and there he was, in the office.

 
          
And
there was his secretary, clipping things from newspapers and magazines and
mounting them in the clear plastic folder-pages of an album. And there was
Buddy, seated at the library table by the windows, going over ledgers with Sol,
the accountant, a short, wide, ugly man with a brain like a Renaissance
Italian. Buddy and Sol were both looking grim, which Jack wasn't likely to
notice. In fact, looking around with pleased surprise to see where his drift
had led him, he said, “Ah.
My merry staff.
My merry accountant.
My merry Buddy.
How is everybody?"

           
“Good morning, Jack/' the secretary
said, glancing up briefly from her work, her manner neutral.

 
          
The
accountant, squinting at Jack across the ledgers, said, “Jack, if you have a
minute—”

 
          
“Sol,"
Buddy said, placing a hand on the accountant's forearm on the table, “let me
talk to him."

 
          
The
accountant shrugged. “Just so somebody does," he said.

 
          
Jack's
smile turned vague but didn't disappear. Buddy got to his feet, crossed the
room, took Jack by the elbow, and said, “Let's go for a walk, Dad."

 
          
“Sure,
Buddy."

 
          
They
left the office, Buddy holding on to Jack's elbow, went out the front door,
walked across the lawn, and made their way to the formal rose garden at the
side of the house, where two gardeners puttered, accomplishing very little.
Buddy looked at them. “Vamos," he said.

 
          
They vamosed.
Jack smiled after them, smiled at the roses,
smiled at Buddy. “It's nice here," he said.

 
          
“Dad,"
Buddy said, “we're in trouble."

 
          
“Take
some blues, Buddy," Jack advised him. “Don't let it get you down. Knock
back a little T and B."

 
          
“We're
beyond that, Dad," Buddy said. He gave Jack's elbow one little shake and
released him. “Sol tells me we're spending ahead of income," he said.
“We've got investments out there, they need cash, we've got to prime the pump,
and we don't have it."

 
          
Uncaring,
still with that same vague smile, Jack said, “All goes to the candy man."

 
          
“A
lot of it does," Buddy agreed. “Dad, you hurt yourself in the industry
with that Academy Award mess, and now you're hurting your career. You're making
bad choices."

 
          
“Buddy,
Buddy," Jack said, reaching for his buddy but missing, “loosen up. What
does it matter?"

 
          
“It
matters a lot," Buddy told him. “All you care about is to stay stoned and
to stay right here inside these walls."

 
          
“Come
on, Buddy, I go out."

 
          
“Where?"

 
          
Jack
thought. “Brazil," he said.

           
"Once a
year."
Buddy shook his head in disgust. "You're turning into
Howard Hughes," he said, "only you don't have any tool company. You
still have to make a living, but you don't want to anymore."

 
          
"Kick
back, Buddy, kick back."

 
          
But
Buddy stayed tense and serious. "We built something nice here, Dad,"
he said, "and I'm not gonna let you pull it down."

 
          
With
mild curiosity, Jack said, "Whatcha gonna do, Buddy?"

 
          
"Stop
you," Buddy said.

 
          
"T
hat was just before Buddy left
on his trip,” the voice says, "six weeks ago.”

           
Focus. Focus. Something's scaring
me, something's wrong here, and it is necessary for me right
now
to get under control, find the reins
of my existence, gather myself together into one place. Mayday! Mayday! Battle
stations! Prepare to crash dive!

 
          
No;
prepare to crash surface.
Up out of the depths, all in one
piece, coming up to the real world, blinking around.
And
if I see my shadow?

 
          
I
see O'Connor. Ah-hah; I'd lost that. O'Connor.
The interview.
For a while there it was just a voice, almost inside my head with me. I was in
a Beckett play all by myself, me and the voice. Saying . . .

 
          
Wait
a minute.
That's
what's wrong.
"Wait a minute,” I say, looking at O'Connor, seeing O'Connor plain.
"You aren't from
People
.”

 
          
"No,
sir,” he says, "I'm not.”

 
          
"Damn
straight,” I tell him, sitting up more firmly, converting my fear into
righteous rage.
"People
wouldn't
put all this stuff in; dead girls in trunks of cars, sleeping with
George." Suddenly I get it; I stare at him, wide-eyed. "The
National Enquirerl”

 
          
"Sir,
I—"

 
          
Alarmed
and outraged, I tell him, "Pal, I don't talk to the
Enquirerl
I set the
dogs
on the
Enquirerl
" Lifting my
head, I cry, "Hoskins!"

 
          
And
he appears, as is his function. Bowing from the waist, my unflappable Hoskins
says, "You bellowed, sir?"

 
          
Good
man. I say to him, "Hoskins, do we got any dogs?"

 
          
"No,
sir," Hoskins says.

 
          
"Drat,"
I say. It would have been fun to watch this bland and boring O'Connor
high-tailing it across the lawn, pen and notebook flying, pursued by slavering
dogs. I say, "Well, we got security men, Hoskins, you can't deny
that."

 
          
"I
do not deny it, sir," he says.

 
          
"Send
me security men," I tell him.
"Sadistic security
men, with a history of psychopathology.
We got here a
National Enquirer
reporter, and I
— "

 
          
"Oh,
I think not, sir," Hoskins says.

 
          
I
frown at him. Hoskins thinks
not
?
What does this mean? "What does this mean, Hoskins?"

 
          
But
it's O'Connor who answers me, saying, "It means I'm not from the
National Enquirer
, Mr. Pine. I'm not a
journalist at all."

 
          
What's
this? I'm chatting with some bum in off the street? I say, "Then what are
you doing talking to me? You got an appointment?"

 
          
"Sir,"
he says, smooth and calm as ever, "as I told you at the beginning of the
interrogation—"

 
          
"Interview,"
I say, correcting him in a hurry, feeling a sudden alarm.

 
          
"Interrogation,"
he says, and then it gets worse. "The other police officers," he
says, "read you your rights and explained the situation to you before you
came out of the house. If you don't remember that, I'm sorry, but"—and he
smiles, faintly—"the legalities have been preserved."

 
          
All
I can do is
stare
at him. "You're a cop?"

           
“Detective Second Grade Michael
O'Connor," he says.
“Bel Air police."

 
          
“But—But—”
My mind is
swirling,
I can't
believe
this is happening. I say, “It was an accident! It was
twenty-five years ago, I didn't mean to kill her,
it
was an accident! Besides, I, I've been a useful member of society ever since,
I've
paid
my debt to society, I—I
gave, I give—Hoskins!"

 
          
He's
right there, of course. “Sir?" he says.

 
          
“Every
Christmas," I say, because I need him to vouch for me now, I need Hoskins
on my side now, “every Christmas, don't we, we give, we send out those UNICEF
cards, don't we?"

 
          
“Yes,
sir," Hoskins says.

 
          
I
face O'Connor—policeman O'Connor—I face him and spread my hands.
“See?"

 
          
“Mr.
Pine," this policeman— policeman!—says, “
it
isn't
a twenty-five-year-old felony that concerns us now. Let's talk about last
night."

 
          
Feeling
scared again, nervous and scared, covering it with mulishness, I say, “I don't
remember last night. I wasn't here. I was in a different galaxy."

 
          
“Maybe
we can bring it back for you," O'Connor says.

 
          
“No
need," I say. “Don't trouble yourself."

 
          
“No
trouble," he assures me. “It was late last evening. You were coming down
the main staircase. The front door opened and Buddy Pal walked in. Do you
remember that?"

 
          
“No,"
I say, though in fact faint images are rising to the surface of my brain,
little bubbles of image, each with a picture inside, each bubble popping, the
images staying behind, filling in, bit by bit.

 
          
“Think
back," O'Connor tells me. “Buddy Pal walked in. You said something like,
‘Hi, Buddy. Where've you been?' Do you remember that?"

 
          
“Maybe,"
I say. “What's wrong with that? What difference does it make?"

 
          
“What
did he answer?"

 
          
“What?"

 
          
“When
you asked me him where he'd been," O'Connor says, patiently pressing me,
holding me, squeezing me, “when you asked him where he'd been, what did he
say?"

 
          
Why
should I cooperate with this son of a bitch? “I don't know,'' I say.

 
          
“Think,"
O'Connor suggests.

 
          
“I
don't remember."

 
          
“Think.”

           
I think. I can't help it. I think
more than I should. I try not to think, I do all kinds of things to stop from
thinking, but none of them ever work, not for long. I think, and then Buddy's
remembered voice comes into my mind, and I repeat what he'd said to me, where
he'd been: “Brazil," I say.

 
          
O'Connor
nods. “Is it coming back now?"

 
          
It
is, dammit. Not thinking is hard to do. “I was already stoned when Buddy walked
in, but when I saw him, when I saw what had happened, what he'd
done,
I right away took a lot more
stuff."