43

Thank Christ August is behind them. September still swelters, but it’s not the incinerator of August, which explains why Mills and Kelly are meandering through the 25th Annual Tempe Art Festival, alternately admiring and mocking the displays. They roll their eyes at the ubiquitous dreamcatchers. There’s always a painting of a huge pink lily that bears a striking resemblance to the vulva. Always. It’s an art cliché. It’s standard fare. Consistently, there’s also faux Southwestern art and jewelry, silver and turquoise galore. “Did you feel that?” Kelly asks him.

“What?”

“The breeze.”

“Ah, I think you’re right,” he says. “Congratulations for surviving summer.”

He’s been out of the hospital for a few weeks, faithfully going for physical therapy, and he’s been back at work part-time. Kelly tells him he’s rushing it. And he says the same thing to Kelly, who’s been back at work herself for two weeks, but full-time. She’ll start her third week of radiation tomorrow. Then chemotherapy. She dreads chemo, and Mills dreads chemo on her behalf, but her prognosis is good. She may have to cut back some work hours during chemo, but her doctors believe she’ll survive more than the summer, that there’ll be many more seasons in the life of Kelly Mills.

Gus will meet up with Beatrice Vossenheimer next week in Boston. He’s never been to Boston, and he’s looking forward to seeing some of the places where real history was made. He’s already conjuring up visions (tourist visions, not psychic visions) of cobblestone streets, sailboats, and Kennedys. He’ll spend about a week with Beatrice as she promotes her book throughout New England.

It’s almost 5:30 p.m. He’s watching CNN. But he’d better get showered. He told Aaliyah Jones he’d pick her up at 6:30. He had reconnected with Aaliyah not long after her release from the hospital. He had watched the interview she gave her own station about her kidnapping and, in studying her closely, watching the way her mouth moved around her words and the way her eyes stared through the camera into his, he could tell she was sending a message specifically to him. She needed to see him, to talk this through. And so, he called her, and she came by. She wasn’t generous with details; he had to do most of the heavy lifting, but he was able to see her experience as both harrowing and defining. It defined her strength and resolve. They fed her and her fellow prisoners once or twice a day. She was locked away in that box of a room, in the dark, on a sheet upon the floor. She was given one hour a day to come out and talk to the other prisoners. She thought she might go mad. But she didn’t go mad. She wrote poetry in her head to keep her head busy. She knew she’d forget most of it, and she has, but poetry served a purpose. She willed herself to see images of hope and light. And she saw images of hope and light. She willed herself to hear the music of her life, and she heard the music of her life.

She says she never doubted she’d survive in a “big picture” kind of way, but she often felt she would not survive the day. At one point she hoped death would come, only to rebel against her own self-pity. And now Gus is drawn to her more than he had expected to be, more than he imagined. Her resolve does something to him, betters his own. They’re having dinner tonight. It will be their first real date. Tentative, but real. He doesn’t know what to expect. But that’s okay.

“The FBI has confirmed to CNN that it has rescued thirty-seven children from a labor camp-like setting in Sedona, Arizona. The camp is linked to the embroiled Church of Angels Rising, which is said to separate church members from their children for a period of six to eight years for intense study and so-called ‘field work.’ Unnamed FBI sources call the conditions of the camp ‘inhumane’ and ‘abusive.’ In fact, the embattled pastor of the megachurch, Gleason Norwood, already facing murder and kidnapping charges, is set to face additional charges stemming from the Sedona raid.”

Damn. Alex Mills has opened a can of worms that can’t be contained. The world could use a little more Alex Mills, and a little less cable news.

“And Gleason Norwood is not the only member of his family making news today . . . Just in to CNN, a jumbo jet carrying Norwood’s wife, Francesca, and 410 other passengers plummeted more than 15,000 feet during a flight over the Pacific last night. Early reports indicate the plane depressurized midway on Flight 1010’s journey between Los Angeles and Papeete, Tahiti. Also on board, we’re told, rock ’n roll legend Billie Welch, her sister, and a few members of her band...”

Sweat trickles down his forehead, from his temples and down his neck. His skin goes clammy, cold. He sinks to the couch. Closes his eyes. He’s tossed around in the surf, like a rag in a washing machine, a huge wave pummeling, having its way with him. He’s slammed against the rocky bottom.

Had Viveca Canning been on that flight, Gus is sure it would have gone down in the ocean. Her murder had changed the course of events. At least in his psychic mind it had. He has to pull himself to the surface now, wipe off the debris, and survey the damage. Billie must have been scared to death.

“Some passengers were treated for serious injuries, but none of the injuries are considered to be life-threatening. The aircraft was able to make it to its final destination after this terrifying incident.”

They purchased a few pieces of pottery. Nothing too extravagant. Just three matching pieces that eschew the whole Southwestern theme and go deeper south for inspiration, across the border into Mexico. A local artist, Brava Torres, created these pieces to evoke the Day of the Dead celebrations. Kelly says the pottery, which feature intricately carved elements of whimsical skeletons and colorful celebrants, gives her the last laugh over cancer, and that’s all Mills needed to hear. He told her she could buy all thirty pieces, but she said that’d be too much to pay for irony.

He has one hand on the wheel, another hand holding hers. There is something squeezing his chest he can’t explain. It’s not a heart attack. But it has a hold of him, a sort of bittersweet pounding in there. Love, loss, love, fear. He’s not sure but he’s convinced that heartbreak, either of love or of sorrow, is real.

They pull onto their street and Kelly says, “You feel like Rosita’s Place for dinner?”

And he says, “I always feel like Rosita’s Place for dinner.”

And she says, “Good. Let’s drop off the merch and head out . . .”

“Any chance we can take a steamy shower together first?” he asks her.

“There’s a chance,” she says with a cluck of her tongue and a lascivious wink of an eye. “The new bald look is quite sexy on you.”

He runs his hand over the stubble of his unfamiliar scalp. “It’s the least I could do.”

As they swing into the driveway, Mills can see the profile of a man on their front doorstep.

“Who’s that?” he asks his wife, as if she’s supposed to know all things domestic.

She peers. They’re almost parked before she says, “Oh, shit, what’s he doing here?”

Mills parks and gets out of the car. As he moves closer to the man, he recognizes the demonic smile of Trey Robert Shinner.

“Trey?” Kelly says. “What are you doing at my house?”

The guy rises from the doorstep. Shinner’s pasty skin and greenish eyes give the impression he’s percolating with vomit. “I can’t think of how to thank you for winning my case, Attorney Mills,” Shinner says. “I’m indebted to you for life.”

She shakes her head. “No, Trey. As you know, your trust fund paid the bill.”

“That’s not what I mean,” he persists. “You know how if someone saves your life you’re supposed to be their servant forever more . . .”

Mills scoffs. “Well, that’s the stuff of legend, Trey . . .”

Shinner’s eyes begin to well. Tears are brimming. “No, no,” he begs. “It is not legend. I shall forever be your servant, Attorney Mills. I will spend the rest of my life repaying you for my freedom. What did you buy today?”

“Some art from the Tempe festival,” Kelly says with a wary smile.

“Let me pay for it.”

“Absolutely not,” Mills says. “Enough with this nonsense, Trey. Go home. Where the hell is your car?”

The man skulks away. “I’m not allowed to drive because of my meds,” he says. “I walked.”

“Call an Uber,” Mills tells him.

“Goodbye, Trey,” Kelly says.

“It’s not goodbye,” Shinner insists. “I will repay you for all you’ve done. Your enemies should be trembling.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mills mutters.

“Come on, let’s go inside,” Kelly says. “He’s a sick man. I tried to get him the help he needs. No one will take him unless he commits himself.”

Shinner is almost at the edge of the lawn when Mills turns and calls to him. “She doesn’t have any enemies, Trey. Just stay away from us.”

Shinner flashes one last smile, this one exposing teeth that hang from his mouth like broken windows. And then singing, “I can’t do that. I can’t do that. I can’t do that,” he skips away into the dusk as if he’s about to join a gang of ghouls who haunt the valley.