Lee let the phone ring ten times before he put it down.
"Well?" said Walter.
"She's still not home." Even the answering machine is off, he thought.
He replaced the Beckers' phone on the dining room table, next to a bowlful of walnuts that had been dipped in gold paint. Against one wall, an armoire displayed a set of limited-edition collectors' plates honoring various film stars, including Marilyn Monroe, John Wayne, Clarke Gable, Shirley Temple and a dozen more in their most famous roles. Lee identified the faces of Klaus Kinski and Hanna Schygulla, but on closer examination saw that they were only Woody Allen and Madonna.
In another room, Philip wailed uncontrollably. Lee heard the mother's voice pleading and then a slap. The boy wailed louder. The door to the dining room burst open and Mr. Becker lumbered out, breathing heavily.
"Did you call?" he said.
"I couldn't get through."
"Jesus, what am I supposed to do with it?" He yelled for his wife. "Minda!"
"I'll take care of it," said Lee. Then, to Walter: "Give me your coat."
"What for?"
"I want to cover it."
Walter followed Lee's gaze through the living room to the porch, where the dog's remains lay in a glossy mound on the mat. "Not the jacket. It's a Versace!"
Lee crossed the living room and opened the screen door. He leaned down and got his fingers under the sides of the welcome mat and prepared to lift the dog on it.
Mrs. Becker was behind him, holding out a plastic garbage bag.
"You can put it in this."
"Take it down and dump it in the trash!" shouted her husband. "I don't care, just get the damn thing out of here!"
Lee opened the plastic bag and slipped it around the mat.
"It smells," said Mrs. Becker.
"Don't worry," said Lee. "I'll get rid of it." He stood, twisting the bag shut and lifting the contents off the porch.
"What about the blood?" she said.
Lee started down the stairs. "Try hosing it off."
Walter followed him down. "Nice. Now what are we supposed to do?"
I can't leave it on their porch, thought Lee. If I put it downstairs, other animals may come, attracted by the scent; he pictured teeth tearing the plastic to get at the carrion inside. And I can't just toss it in the dumpster. It's not a piece of garbage.
"I'll keep it till Animal Control gets here."
"That might not be tonight."
"Go home, Walter," Lee said. "You've done your part"
Walter did not resist the suggestion.
"Well, remember what I said about the press…."
"I'll refer all calls to you. And Walter? Forget the interviews. Make whatever statement you want, but Jenny and I don't want to talk to any reporters. If the police get in touch…"
"Call Mark at Kalisch and Fischer. You have the number?"
"Yeah. Now you better get going. You can find your way, can't you?"
"Right. I'm out of here."
Lee looked back in the direction of the pool and the rec room. All the lights were still on except for the lampposts along the tree-lined path, leaving a wall of blackness between here and the front gate.
"That way, right?"
"Right. Past the trees, then straight ahead."
"Gotcha. If you need anything—"
"Don't call us. I'll call you."
Lee watched him pass between the waving trees as another gust of wind snaked through the grounds, disrupting everything in its wake, like an invisible presence speeding relentlessly toward some unseen purpose. Walter paused long enough to turn and shout:
"Tell Jenny she did great!"
Then he was gone into the darkness.
Lee cut between the buildings, avoiding the unlighted path. Cradling the heavy plastic bag, he thought, Someone is going to miss this dog. Someone on the next block or the next, who will call for their pet but Spot or Rover or Towser will not be home tonight. He imagined himself leaving the complex and walking the streets with the package in his arms, listening for a whistle or a voice that shouted Here, boy! as he watched every porch for an untouched bowl of kibble, a forlorn face at a window, a lonely child standing watch as the wind taunted and mocked, testing screen doors and scattering raked leaves and howling down the empty streets, going away.
Who would do a thing like this? The dog had been struck by a large blade, with nearly enough force to cut the head off. And Lee had almost been there in time to see it….
Some chickenshit teenager? A gang kid with a machete? A tough guy who drives heavy machinery by day and keeps a hatchet by the back door, a psycho Vietnam vet who sleeps with a bayonet under his pillow? Not an animal, no, but a human being who acts on his angers without concern for the consequences, for what it might do to someone else. That's evil, he thought. Someone without conscience is someone less than fully human.
He passed glowing windows behind which people sat watching television, as if the windows themselves were television screens, the buildings nothing more than false fronts on some backlot, a set inhabited by extras waiting for the director to return and tell them what to do. And behind one of those windows, lurking in a doorway or hiding in the bushes was the one who had done this thing, who had slaughtered a living being for no reason.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Why don't you come on out?"
The only answer was the wind at his back, a sound deceptively like whimpering.
"Here, this is what you wanted! Come and get it!"
The whimpering continued. It was a human voice, after all. He turned in time to see a short figure duck out of sight in the bushes.
"You! Did you do this?"
The figure showed itself.
It was Philip.
Lee gave a nod. The boy came running and caught up with him. They walked on together.
"Where are you going?" said the boy.
"Home," said Lee.
"Is it far?"
"Just on the other side of those buildings."
The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Was he your doggie?"
"No. Do you know where he lived?"
"He always came over after school. I gave him lots of stuff. Hot dogs. Cheese. He liked cheese."
"Did he?"
"Yeah. He was a good dog."
"I'll bet he was."
They kept walking, farther away from the path now, through the grass. Lee could not see his own house yet.
"Are you gonna bury him?"
"Do you think I should?" Lee asked.
The boy nodded solemnly.
It seemed like a good idea. The Animal Control truck would simply dispose of it like so much spoiled meat. Even a dog deserved better than that. He decided that he might not call them at all.
"Where?" Lee asked. "We need a good place."
"Um, a tree."
"Which one?"
The boy shrugged.
"We'll do it in the morning, then."
As soon as he said it, however, Lee thought again of the wandering packs of wild dogs, coyotes and raccoons that might be drawn to it out in the open before morning. On the other hand, did he really want to keep it till then? Where would he put it? He would have a hard enough time explaining to Jenny about the blood on his clothes.
"My dad won't let me," said the boy. "But I can get up real early…."
"Does your dad know where you are now?"
"I sneaked out. Through the window."
"Don't you think you'd better tell him, and your mom, so they don't worry?"
"No."
Neither do I, thought Lee.
"Where's your shovel?" said the boy.
Lee heard the wind playing tricks again. It sounded like people talking over by the path, though it could have come from any direction. The buildings served as baffles, deflecting the sound waves in unexpected ways, magnifying the falling of leaves on cement so that they could be footsteps, the wind the chattering of human voices.
"I'll see if I have one," said Lee.
If I don't, he thought, I'll dig the grave with my bare hands. Whatever it takes to do it right.
In other clothes Walter would have been a different man.
For example, with jeans, sneakers and a shorter haircut, one that lay in a more casual fashion over his forehead, would come a more relaxed gait and an easier smile, though the emphasis would then be on his long, dour face. In a three-piece suit he would seem older and more uptight, the wiry hair brushed closer to his head, calling even greater attention to his pallor. Only in bathing trunks would he look to be exactly what he was, a middle-aged man beginning to go soft around the middle and loose in the arms, with graying chest hair that belied the dyed strands he usually combed across the top of his head. As it was, in pleated wool trousers to suggest a strength to his legs that was no longer there and a full-cut sportshirt to hide the fleshiness, the oversized jacket to add heft to his arms and shoulders and the curled hair at the back of his bulldog neck, he fit his part perfectly.
The look included thin-soled loafers and narrow belts incapable of holding the hi-rise slacks above his hips, and required that he walk with slower, more measured steps, pausing routinely every few seconds to touch his shirt at the waist to be sure it was tucked in and his gut properly concealed. The overall effect was of a man who had made a premature jump in social class a few years ago, long enough to forget his origins but not long enough to feel at ease in a town where appearances were everything and details were scrutinized from blocks away, a town of dreams bought and sold, dominated by actors and agents, where people dreamed of living in dream houses and life itself was a dream, a fantasy performed in an arranged setting under a perpetually flattering sun, instead of the hard reality it was for those who lived elsewhere.
Walter kept moving, regardless. The operant principle for his life was that a moving target is harder to identify, responsibility less likely to adhere to someone not locked into a continuing role, a character at once on the make for a better part and his own pimp, whose obituary would list gross profit participation and onscreen credits as the only statistics worth mentioning.
He had just passed the pool, on his way to the front gate, when he heard the voices.
He did not stop, did not even pause. From the studio apartments on the other side of the dwarf palm trees came the sound of newscasts, all reporting the same story, of the murder this afternoon in Beverly Hills. As if reluctant to be identified as one of the minor players in this sensational melodrama, he lowered his chin and stared down at the path as he emerged from the darkness.
Now there were colored circles on the ground ahead, from spotlights on the roof of the recreation room. The wind came up again and a white plastic chair toppled into the pool with a splash, floating briefly and knocking against the concrete lip before sinking below the surface. Trees waved rubbery leaves in the overcast sky and the fronds of the tropical shrubbery undulated near the wrought-iron enclosure. Within the rec room, a green Ping-Pong table had the polished sheen of a worn craps table under a single hooded bulb. Walter turned up his collar and pressed on toward the gate, his fists in his jacket pockets.
The gate was a tall frame with welded iron bars and a solid square of reinforced steel to protect the electronically activated latch. Outside the gate were the residents' mailboxes, locked panels bolted to a stucco wall, and a sidewalk leading across the lawn to the street. In the street, every parking space was taken, the cars nearest the entrance awash with colorful reflections from the spotlights in front of the complex. The tops of the cars squirmed with shadows as tree branches overhead jerked and trembled in the rising wind. Crisp leaves blew against the tires and collected in the gutters, as the Santa Ana shrieked around rearview mirrors and whistled through the gate, groaning in the open-air foyer as if it were a wind tunnel.
Walter removed one hand from his jacket and grasped the latch.
"Help me…" said a voice.
He let go of the handle as if jolted by a charge of static electricity.
There was no one behind him.
"Over here," said the voice, "please…!"
Where?
"Please!"
The voice came from the end of the short tunnel, and somewhere to the right, where the doorway to the rec room stood open.
"Can I help you?" Walter said.
There was a figure just inside, half-hidden by the edge of the door.
"Excuse me, but I'm trying to find someone. There are no names on the mailboxes."
"I wouldn't know," said Walter. "I don't live here."
"Haven't you heard of the Marlows?"
Beyond the door, the light bulb swung back and forth, causing the shadows under the green table to lengthen against a pile of towels on the floor. The rasping voice sounded like a woman, though it had a confusingly androgynous quality. The face remained bisected. The half that he could see had no distinct features. Was that because of the backlight?
"Twenty-three nineteen," Walter said. "But they're not home."
"Oh, I see. I'll wait, then."
"Lee's already here, but he's not in the house yet. Give him a few more minutes." Walter gestured at the simulated forest that was the grounds. "Go down the path…"
"It's so dark."
"Wait here, then. Jenny should be home soon. If she doesn't park in the garage, in which case—"
"You know Jennifer?"
"She's my client."
"Then you must be…"
"Walter Heim. Creative Artists International. And you're… ?"
Passing the pool enclosure, Jenny spotted something white floating under the water.
Was it only the moon's reflection? She could not be sure, the way the wind whipped the surface. She paused by the railing for a better look.
Overhead, the sky was milky with the moon barely showing through the mist And there below was its glowing circle, pale and hyaline, rocking on the wavelets in the deep end.
Another whiteness, however, lay in the shallow end nearest her. It seemed to have arms and legs. She rubbed her elbows, chilled, and backed away from the iron rail.
Where was Libby?
I shouldn't have let her go ahead for the car, she thought.
Jenny knew the way to the front gate well enough. But tonight something was wrong. The last days and hours seemed to be building a momentum that would require some sort of terrible climax. So many details, meaningless in themselves, now attached to the deaths of Lee's parents, Tip's murder this afternoon and Lee's absence tonight, lending each event new weight. It was impossible for her to know where it was leading, but she had a strong sense that whatever the process was it could not be diverted. She could not simply step aside and let it pass her by, for she was a part of it.
Just let me make it through the night, she thought. This night. And then maybe, just maybe things will snap back in the morning….
Lee, I need you!
At least she had Libby.
Or did she?
It was getting darker. There were no lights on the path. Whenever there had been a power failure before, it had not lasted for long. Someone from Maintenance & Security would show up and chuck the right switch, change the fuse or whatever it was they did, and order would be restored in a matter of minutes. Where were they now? Paulino was probably home in bed, but someone was on call, weren't they? She glanced back at the way she had come. The tall trees formed a wall of impenetrable blackness, as if to discourage her from returning to her house.
She knew now why she had paused by the pool enclosure in the first place. It was because of the sounds. The way the wind resonated in the drainpipes and rattled the screen doors and set the lampposts to creaking, and the splashing of water and the clanging of the front gate ahead, as though someone were shaking it like the bars of a cage.
Wasn't Libby outside already?
"Over here," said a voice.
Where was it coming from?
"Here!"
With the wind singing in her ears, she could not be sure.
Then she saw someone on the flagstone path, coming this way.
"Libby…?"
"Well, who do you think?"
It was her friend's voice and her face above the collar of the heavy coat. Hearing her words, Jenny left the iron fence. Now she saw the plastic chairs around the pool, some of them tipped over by the wind, and realized that the whiteness below the surface was one of these chairs, lying upside down so that its arms and legs pointed at the moon. With Libby here again, details receded into a more normal perspective, unremarked aspects of a familiar landscape.
"Did you get the car?"
"Not yet."
"You know, you don't have to park on the street. Next time use the garage. I'll give you the code…."
"I can't get out," said Libby. "The gate won't open."
"Sure it will. All you do is turn the handle. It's not locked from the inside."
"See for yourself…"
Their footsteps rang as they walked the last few yards through the short tunnel.
"Here," said Libby. "You try it."
Jenny grasped the latch. It turned, but only an inch, no more. Libby was right. It was jammed.
"Oh, for God's sake. What is wrong with this thing…?"
Then she noticed the marks. Something had struck the steel reinforcement over the lock, chipping the paint so that bare metal showed through. The plate was knocked out of alignment, just enough to prevent the mechanism from clearing the frame.
"It looks like someone tried to break in," Jenny said, incredulous.
"Did they?"
"Look at the marks. Like they hit it with a, what do you call it? sledgehammer. At least they didn't get in…."
"Not in," said Libby. "The marks are on this side. Somebody was trying to break out."
"Why? Why would they? It always opens from inside."
"Then they wanted to wreck it, so it wouldn't."
Not a sledgehammer, thought Jenny. The gouges were sharp and narrow, in a single downward line.
"I'll call Security."
"How are you going to do that?" said Libby.
"Over here. There's a phone."
Jenny led her out of the foyer to the rec room.
The door was open. Inside, a Ping-Pong table, three smaller tables with chairs, soda and food machines, a bulletin board, an inflatable air mattress for the pool and a white flotation ring with rope attached, and a pile of used towels. The wind followed them in, causing the hooded bulb to swing slowly, casting shadows that expanded and contracted.
Jenny went to the phone. "Do you have any change? I forgot my purse."
Libby took a wallet out of her coat pocket and unsnapped the coin compartment. "Just pennies and nickles."
"It takes dimes and quarters."
"Here." Libby handed over a bill. "Buy a Coke and get change."
Jenny smoothed the bill, unfolding the corners, and inserted it into the drink machine. It immediately rolled out of the slot, rejected. She flattened it and tried again, but it was too soft and full of wrinkles.
"Give me another one."
"Let's see. A ten, two twenties…Nope. It won't take those."
"Great." Jenny leaned against the Coke machine, momentarily defeated.
"Forget Security. How do we get out?"
"We have to walk all the way back. There's a service entrance on the west side. Or we could go through the parking garage."
"Where's that?"
"Not as far." She had a mental image of Tip in another garage, on his knees in his stupidly trendy clothes, pleading before someone took his life. She could not come up with a picture of the killer beyond a tall, bulky figure with something in its hand…."But I—I really don't want to go down there. Not tonight."
Libby understood. "All right, we go back."
Jenny did not like the idea of walking all that way again, even with someone. Was there an alternative?
"We could wait here, till somebody comes in. When they open the gate…"
"It won't open. It's jammed."
Libby was right.
"This is like one of those dreams," Jenny said, "when you're running and you can't get anywhere. You know, the monster's chasing you but you can't get away?"
"Dream, my ass," said Libby. "This is ridiculous. I'm going to knock on the first door I see and get some change. I don't intend to stand here all night!"
Outside, there was a crash.
Jenny looked through the plate glass window, through the ghostly image of herself and Libby under the swaying light fixture, and saw a small, round object the size of a human head roll to a stop inside the pool enclosure. It was the top of one of the tiki lamps, black and sooty, with a pale wick sticking out of the top. At least it was not on fire now.
"What's happening to this place?" said Libby.
"The wind."
"So?"
"They call it a Santa Ana. It comes up from the Gulf of Mexico…."
"No way," said Libby. "Santa Anas are warm. This one acts like some kind of tropical storm. What did they say on the news?"
"I don't know. I never got to the weather report."
"Hurricane Lizzie."
"That," said Jenny, "is not very funny."
Now the wind picked up visible speed, as the palm trees bent over like catapults about to launch razor-sharp fronds. They watched in disbelief as the surface of the pool churned into whitecaps and the rest of the plastic chairs skittered forward. What was next? A waterspout?
Jenny left the window to close the door. Then she returned to stand with Libby as a powerful gust of wind hit the glass full on. The pane bowed, distorting the reflection of the two women, the green table and the pile of used towels breathing behind them.
"It's going to break, isn't it?" said Libby. "You know what? You're right. This is a nightmare."
The foliage twisted and reformed, as if the world within the complex was not, had not ever been secure, the surroundings malleable and subject to any manner of change, like the props of a film set waiting to be struck and rebuilt into endlessly new patterns. Jenny searched her memory for the missing details that might bring it all together, in a pattern that had some meaning.
"Hurricane Rose," she said slowly.
Libby laughed. "I like that better. You know, there's no need to be afraid of her. Rose wouldn't do anything to harm you, I promise. We're here to help."
"Why won't you tell me what kind of help?"
"Whatever you need—that's our task. Or rather the Companions. They watch out for the living."
"What was it she said?"
"We already had this conversation, didn't we? Blades. Blades that fall. Remember?"
"Not that part. Before."
Jenny was thinking about the murder this afternoon, the way it had happened. For some reason she had a flash of Andrew Borden in 1892, how he had been found in his sitting room with his head cleaved open and his face practically sliced off, one eye hanging down his cheek…
"'The Companions are two,' wasn't it?"
"'Two sisters…'" said Libby.
"'One serves the light…and one the darkness,'" Jenny finished for her.
Now she thought of the gate outside. The vertical cuts on the lockplate, as if something heavy had come down on it, swung full-force. Something like—
"And the light," Libby said, stepping away from the window.
Jenny watched her reflection, the hooded bulb overhead tilting like a Chinese peasant's hat, the light swaying on its cord so that Libby's face was divided, one half in darkness for seconds at a time.
"'Don't turn away from the light…'" Libby said. "Oh!"
Libby backed past the end of the table, slipped and fell. She went down fast, disappearing from sight as if something had yanked her off her feet.
Jenny turned from the window.
The other woman had fallen into the pile of dirty towels.
"Are you hurt?"
"Christ, no." Libby tried to get up. "I just slipped on something, that's all."
There was a wet spot on the floor. The used towels were still damp and some of the pool water had leaked out of them and formed a puddle. As Libby pushed against the towels, more water squeezed out.
"They shouldn't leave these here," Libby said. "I could have broken something and filed an insurance claim! You know, a neck brace, the whole bit. I could…"
"The laundry service is supposed to pick them up." Every Tuesday and Friday, Jenny thought, along with a bundle of clean ones. They must have skipped a day. The pile was large, two or three feet tall. And still wet. A lot of people must have gone in the pool today. She had not seen any, though. Who would go swimming in weather like this? And the shelf of new towels was practically empty. It was as if someone had pulled them all down onto the floor….
Libby held out her hand and Jenny gave her a tug to set her on her feet. Jenny's hand was wet.
"Oops," Libby said. "Sorry. I need a dry one." She picked up a towel from the pile, then another.
Jenny stared at her own hand. It was wet, too. It was also dark, like the stain on the cement floor, the stain that was growing as more dark fluid squeezed out of the pile.
She lifted the next towel and they both saw that those farther down were even darker.
"They're all so dirty…." Libby said.
Then she let go and put her hands to her mouth.
Staring up at them from deep within the pile was the blood-spattered face of the late Walter Heim.