Chapter 34

Sitting on the bank of the rock pool, her dress sopping, Hanna stared into the clouded water and murmured, “Fucking shit . . .”

The stage had turned again.

“What’s the matter?” asked Hugh.

Hanna rubbed her palms against her dark wet pant legs.

“I couldn’t lift him.”

“Lift who?”

She pointed to the water, but the sediment, perhaps stirred by Hanna’s immersion, revealed nothing.

Hugh slid from the embankment into the water. Mud squished up through his toes. The water reaching his thighs, he took baby steps toward the center. He had not advanced two yards when his foot struck something resistant. He halted then, breathed in the familiar and comforting scents of a Topanga morning, the laurel sumac and jasmine, the black sage and buckwheat. He lowered himself until he crouched beneath the surface. He touched the timber, felt its contours and couldn’t pretend it wasn’t human. Before he remembered his own stale breath, he had his arms around the torso and was lifting his burden to the surface.

Hanna said nothing as Hugh dragged the body from the water, hoisted it on his shoulder and climbed the embankment. He set the body down slowly, gently. There was no rush. Kyle’s face was gray, his eyes staring blankly. On his forehead was a dark indentation.

“I couldn’t lift him,” said Hanna. “I tried, really I tried.”

“When? How—”

“I just saw him there at the bottom of the water.”

“Was he at the party?”

“No, but I told you. He was following me.”

“He may have just fallen. Hit his head on the stone. Was he on something?”

“Oh, sure, something. Bath salts, maybe. Drinking too, I suppose.” She glanced at Kyle. “He stayed on the bottom. The sonofabitch stayed on the bottom. He was always going on about his muscle density. See what it got you?” She twitched, rubbed her thumb across the black lip stud. “They’re gonna blame it on me, huh?”

“In the dark, Kyle slipped, hit his head on a rock and drowned,” said Hugh. “Nobody’s fault. Just bad luck.”

“He’s dead like that.”

“Yes, like that.”

“Kyle, you’re an asshole,” said Hanna, but she leaned sideways and touched his cheek. “Not gonna sell any newspapers to the Chinese now.”

“I’ll call the police, explain what happened.”

“They won’t believe you—me.”

“It was an accident, that’s all.”

“Why couldn’t he just leave me alone?” moaned Hanna.

“You can stay in my house until the police arrive.”

“You’re leaving?” asked Hanna.

“For a while . . .”

Hanna reached into the rock pool, scooped up a handful of water and splashed it on her face. Hugh stared into the pool. The sediment was settling, the water clarifying. A crayfish scuttled across the bottom and disappeared under a rock.

As Hugh waited for the crayfish to reappear, a red glow spread across the surface of the pool. Blood, Hugh wondered, glancing at Hanna, whose eyes had turned toward the house. An engine revved, and then died.

What else? What fucking else?

“Did you call them?” asked Hugh.

Hanna shook her head.

“Wait here,” said Hugh.

The patrol car had parked behind the Volvo. The red light continued to flash as two officers exited the car. It was Escher and the other officer who had been there the night of the fire.

“Mr. Mcpherson?”

“Yes?” said Hugh, reaching the end of the path.

“I have a warrant for your arrest.”

Hugh came to a dead stop. The sequence of events was wrong. They could not have a warrant if they hadn’t discovered a crime. He finally managed, “My arrest?”

The two officers looked beyond Hugh. He followed their glance to Hanna. Rising to her waist like a Polynesian skirt, the brush hid Kyle’s body.

“Excuse me, miss. Would you come here,” Escher called out.

Hanna walked slowly up the path. A hesitant bride. Hugh met her eyes, uncertain of what he was warning. She stopped alongside Hugh. The cops looked her over.

“What’s your name?” asked Escher.

“Hanna. Hanna Baker.”

“You appear to be at least twenty-five years old.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” said Hanna. “I’ll be thirty in November.”

The cops exchanged looks. Escher shrugged.

“You know Mr. Mcpherson?”

“Sure,” she said, almost brightly.

“What’s your relationship?” asked the other officer, his hand on his holster.

Hanna shrugged. “He’s my friend.”

“You’ve slept together,” said the officer.

Hanna looked at Hugh, who nodded.

“Maybe a little,” said Hanna. “I mean, yes. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? Sleeping together isn’t against the law.”

“Not completely,” said Escher’s partner.

“You said you have a warrant. For what?” asked Hugh.

Escher ignored him. He took Hanna’s wrist as if taking her pulse. “Do you know someone named Anna Mendez?”

“Nope,” answered Hanna.

“You never saw Mr. Mcpherson with Anna Mendez?”

“I don’t know her, so I wouldn’t know. I mean, if I saw him with her.”

“Anna is fifteen years old.”

“Well, Mr. Mcpherson teaches.”

“Yes, he does,” agreed Escher. “But we’re talking outside of school. Have you ever seen Mr. Mcpherson with girls who appeared younger than eighteen?”

“Is that illegal?” asked Hanna.

“Depends,” said Wiseass.

“Would you please tell me what the warrant is for?” asked Hugh.

“You’re being charged with the sexual exploitation of a minor.”

“I gave a couple of students a ride. Jesus Christ, that’s all—”

“Save it, Mr. Mcpherson.”

The earth sunk, shifted.

Hugh was hardly aware of his arms being pulled behind him. The smooth cool metal and the soft jarring click.

They gave him one minute to say his good-byes to Hanna. He kissed her on the cheek and whispered for her to do nothing. Wait in the house. If she needed something— the trunk in the closet. Cash.

As they settled him in the backseat of the patrol car, Escher took pity on Hugh and informed him that they’d located Anna Mendez that morning. When asked about the photo, she said that her teacher, Mr. Mcpherson, had taken it.

At the station, Escher read him Miranda and allowed him to call his attorney.