COMING AT STONE CANYON from over the mountains instead of up from the city as he’d done yesterday, he had to reorientate himself. When he passed a pull-in and saw the glint of the reservoir under a quarter moon behind him, he realized that he’d gone too far. He swung the Delahaye around to head back uphill, and nearly lost the road as he did so. He rubbed at the blackness in his eyes as the offside front wheel spun over emptiness. Told himself to concentrate and slow down. The car still stank of fumes even with the air streaming in through the broken window, but he didn’t want to do a better job of killing himself than
April Lamotte had done. Or risk getting stopped by the cops.
It was quiet up here in that way that even the valleys above Hollywood eventually grew quiet. Too early to be called late; too late to be called early. The house parties and the private showings finally finished, the stars and the players grabbing a precious few hours of beauty sleep before the next power breakfast or early make-up call.
Here it was. Woodsville. He drove more slowly from the bend into the estate, looking left and right along landscaped roads which climbed in rivers of silver between darkened drives, until he saw a copse of firs by the left hand verge which he reckoned to lie about two hundred yards from Erewhon’s entrance. He pulled in, edged the car back and forth until it was parked mostly in shadow, then stopped the engine.
He sat. Waited. Listened. Only the wind now through the treetops. His elbow ached, he still felt awful, and the stink on his clothes and the taste in his mouth of automobile exhaust seemed worse now that he was breathing fresh canyon air. The car door made a clattering sound as he opened it. A bigger wave of nausea came over him. Hunched across the car, he waited until, in a sour acid flux, whatever was left of that expensive meal at Chateau Bansar emptied itself out of him.
What was he going to do when he got to Erewhon? He had no idea. There was no doubt that April Lamotte had tried to kill him, but why? Just thinking about it set his head spinning. It was a suicide she’d tried to stage, right? But if she wanted to kill Daniel Lamotte, surely she’d have killed him, not someone who looked like him…?
He wiped his mouth. The deal had always been too good. Should have thought this through earlier. But at least he was still alive—he had that on April Lamotte. He was alive, when she thought she’d succeeded in killing him. Her guard would be down tonight. She’d be relieved, relaxed, doing whatever she was planning on doing next. He probably even had the keys to Erewhon right here along with the Delahaye’s in his pocket. And he knew he didn’t have a great amount left to lose. Not when you considered all he’d already lost or thrown away. In that narrow sense, Clark Gable thought of himself as a realist.
The air here was denser, scented with all kinds of night plants. Wet fronds shoved against him as he hunch-ran along the side of the road. Something large and winged fluttered briefly against his face. Then, he saw the entrance to the drive leading to the house. He slowed. How big were the gardens? How long was the drive? Should have paid more attention yesterday, Clarkie baby, although he could hardly have expected to plan on the events of tonight. Still, doing what he was doing right now didn’t feel so odd. Creeping through undergrowth toward someone else’s home was a regular part of his work. Although he’d normally have brought along a camera loaded with high sensitivity film. He’d have dressed in darker clothes as well, although this suit was a whole lot grayer and more blotched now than it had been a few hours ago.
He ducked across the road to the marble sign beneath a fuchsia hedge. His fingers traced that odd word Erewhon. Then, as he worked his way around to look up the drive, he froze. A dark figure was standing in the shadows just up from Erewhon and on the far side of the road. A wave of dread washed over him. That thing in the car… But no. The figure was moving, hands in pockets, swaying its legs and working its shoulders in the way that a person might do in order to keep limber and warm. And the figure was slim, and tall, and dressed in some kind of uniform. He even caught the gold glint of a badge. Slowly, as noiselessly as he could, Clark backed off and around the fuchsia hedge. Leaning into the undergrowth, he took in a long breath. He could still hear the figure shuffling, hear the soft tread of boots on dew-damp grass. Could hear him whistling. It was a sound as thin and empty of melody as the wind passing through the nearby trees, but far more chilling. Whatever it was that the Gladmont Securities guy was doing here, it couldn’t have much to do with his normal business of keeping Fuller Brush salesmen out of Woodsville.
Clark backed further off, the nausea returning and his breathing more rapid now. He could wait here, he guessed. Or run. Venice? But April Lamotte and whoever else was involved in this knew exactly where he lived. Maybe somewhere further, safer, more anonymous. But where—and safe from what? He didn’t trust his judgment tonight. He knew his reactions were dulled and raw. But what the hell was this about? What had April Lamotte really been trying to do?
So he got this rental, a cheap place Downtown on Bunker Hill. Called it reconnecting. He went there, and he took his typewriter with him. That, and a few reams of paper and some old clothes. And I let him go, Mr Gable. I let him go …