2.

BACK AT VIC’S HOUSE, I was all out of sorts and looping with worry about the young woman, couldn’t put her out of my mind. I wanted to think that Sebastian was mostly harmless, all bark and no bite, and the way he had backed off did indicate that. But they were also all alone now, and my being with Frances had enraged him, and I was terribly worried he’d take his rich-boy anger out on her. She was a much easier target than me, and I kept thinking I should go back there, that I shouldn’t have left her with him. She could stay here, I thought. I would sleep in the hammock and then drive her to the airport the next day.

She was full of fantasies and had made a young person’s bad choice coming down here, which I didn’t judge her for: I was fifty-four and still making bad choices, like saying yes to her offer of a drink. If I hadn’t gone up there, he wouldn’t have seen us and gotten all pissed off. My bad choice had created a ripple, the definition of karma. Now, how could I undo that karma?

The obvious answer was probably to do nothing. To not make things worse.

But my little encounter with the young Englishwoman had stirred things up in all sorts of ways, and finally around eight o’clock, I left Vic’s house, having convinced myself that I should check on her. I wanted to make sure she was safe, and if she was all right when I got to the Rock House—maybe he had passed out again—I would leave her be. But if things seemed bad, then I would offer for her to stay with me, and I’d take her to the airport the next day.

So, in the darkness, not even bringing a flashlight, I headed back to the beach. The desert, as always, was beautifully silent—just the wind and the strange sounds of birds at night, mostly babies crying for their mothers who were out hunting for food.

I was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers—the air was still warm—and when I got to the arroyo, Dan and Yuko’s fire was dying down. They were in their tent, no light on, already asleep. They lived by the sun, as I had most of my time in Dos Ballenas, and the beach, as I walked to the Rock House, carrying my sneakers, was very dark. With just a meager half-moon in the sky, the world was lit like an X-ray: the white edge of the sea was the line I followed as I trudged north up the sand.

I could have approached the house from the cliff road, but there was a high fence and locked gate off the road, and so I figured I’d just climb back up those Gatsby stairs and see what was going on, see if she was all right.

On some level, I knew this wasn’t sane behavior, but I had this feeling that he was going to hurt her, and I needed to stop it.

At the base of the stairs, which glowed whitely in the darkness, I had second thoughts, so I sat on the bottom step, giving myself a chance to reverse course.

I stayed there for several minutes, looking at and listening to the sea, heaving itself against the world. Then comet-like flames began to cross the black sky, before dying in the water.

But I knew they weren’t comets: Kathy and Zim would sometimes take mushrooms and send off into the night a dozen or more beautiful Chinese lanterns, made of paper with a candle inside. I had done this with them many times over the last few years, and it was always quite stunning. We would launch a flock of them, one after the other, and in a flaming line, the lanterns would head for the sea, where they would eventually catch fire and burn themselves out.

And that night, sitting on the white steps, I chose to think of the lanterns as an omen, a signal flare from home for me to return.

So I stood up and started walking back, feeling good about my decision not to interfere.

But then I heard something on the wind and convinced myself it was a woman’s scream. Then I heard it again and didn’t have to convince myself, and I went running up the stairs.

It was Frances who was screaming.

I crested the top stair, and on the other side of the pool, through the big glass window, I saw her naked, running from him.

During the day, the sun had reflected off the windows, but now I could see that behind the glass was a large living room with long white couches, which Frances was keeping between herself and Sebastian, running from him in a helpless circle.

She shrieked over her shoulder, “Leave me alone!”

He wasn’t naked like her but was wearing a white robe, and he looked enraged, his face beet red. I sprinted across the deck, which undulated with beams of light from the glowing pool, and on the other side of the window, I saw him catch up to Frances and grab her by the arm. Then he slapped her and she fell to the ground, and he started kicking her. By then I was through the large sliding glass door, which had been left open, and I shouted, “STOP IT!”

He whirled, and without hesitation, he charged me, and before I could set myself, he tackled me to the ground, landed on my chest, and started choking me. That was the best thing he could have done, because I reached up and took the index finger of his left hand with my right hand—my strong hand and probably his weak hand—and I snapped his finger, breaking it.

He screamed, and I shoved him off me.

He huddled on the ground, holding his finger, the pain overwhelming him, and I whipped around behind him, like a wrestler, and got him in a chokehold. He struggled like a frenzied animal, but I put him to sleep, being sure not to kill him. Then I turned to Frances. She was still on the floor, on her back, crying and heaving, holding her side where he had kicked her.

I went to her quickly and said, “Let me help you up.”

“NO! DON’T TOUCH ME!”

Her mouth was spilling blood—he had split her lip when he hit her—and she curled up into a tight fetal ball to hide her nakedness.

Then she began to rock, like a child, her breath ragged with sobs.

I spied a Mexican blanket on one of the white couches and draped it over her body, and kneeling by her, I tried to comfort her, my hand on her shoulder, but this only made her rock faster. Removing my hand, I said, “I’m so sorry this happened, Frances; when you’re ready, let’s get you out of here.” But she didn’t say anything, just kept sobbing, and, in addition to her crying, my head was filled with interior noise, the pounding of fear and adrenaline.

But, then, through all the clamor, I sensed something behind me. I turned and it was Sebastian. He had come to much quicker than I anticipated, and there was a champagne bottle in his good hand, grabbed from a bucket. He started to swing the bottle—

Panicked, I turned away, hoping to avoid the blow, but I was too late.

There was an explosion on the back of my head, followed by the most terrible searing pain, like I had been doused with a bucket of fire.

Then there was no pain, only blackness, then not even that.