When they reached the top of the trail Kyle picked up the pace, half dragging the girl across the deserted parking lot. At every step he expected someone to call his name.
Hey, Kyle, who’s the babe? Whew, what’s that smell? She carrying seaweed in that outfit?
How the hell would he ever explain Marianne?
I know she doesn’t look too great, and you don’t want to get downwind of her, but she can’t help it. Dead, you see.
Blessedly, no one was afoot on the road above the secluded beach on this gloomy day. The mismatched couple traversed the parking lot unseen. The sight of his faithful Jeep Wrangler waiting where he had left it cheered him a little.
Kyle got in, making no effort to assist Marianne beyond unlocking the passenger side door from inside. No more points would be awarded for courtesy. Any need for observing etiquette was long gone. And he sure as hell did not want to touch her. She climbed in and sat beside him without comment. He started to buckle up, decided the hell with it, left the seatbelt dangling, and peeled out of the lot.
Once on Pacific Coast Highway he cranked both side windows all the way down. For the first time he regretted not choosing the Sahara model that included the khaki soft top. He kept the Jeep right at the speed limit through light traffic south to Sunset Boulevard, then headed inland to his parents’ home in Brentwood. Marianne did not speak during the 30-minute drive, and Kyle gratefully used the respite to invent a story for his parents. He was crazy eager to get this ugly business over with as soon as possible. That meant little time for explaining the unexplainable before hitting the highway.
He pulled into the driveway of his parents’ white neo-Colonial house and stopped.
“Wait here,” he said to Marianne.
She gave him a gummy, gap-toothed smile that made his stomach lurch. “What’s the matter, lover? Ashamed of me?”
He jerked away from her and hurried inside.
• • •
Valerie Brubaker always pretended she didn’t believe it, but took a secret pleasure from hearing people say she couldn’t possibly have a 21-year-old son. At 46 Valerie had rich brown hair, maintained without the aid of chemicals. Moisturizers kept her face soft and unlined, and she followed a rigorous aerobics regimen to keep the body firm. She had turned an unused upstairs bedroom into an office from which she conducted her modest real estate business. What had started as a hobby — helping friends find suitable homes — had grown into a profitable part-time profession as she discovered a natural aptitude for the business.
Kyle knocked on the open door before going in.
His mother hit the Save key on her computer and turned to smile at him.
“You’re home early. Bad surf?”
“No surf. Uh, Mom, something came up.”
“Trouble?” Mothers have a sixth sense.
“No, no,” he lied quickly. “But I’ve got a chance to drive up to British Columbia with Brian. He knows these people up there who have a cabin who aren’t using it this year, and …” He let the sentence hang, hoping his mother would pick up on it before he spun the story out too thin.
“I thought Brian was in Europe or somewhere with his parents,” she said.
“Oh, yeah, Greece. He, uh, decided not to go.” Kyle had never been an adept liar, and lying to his mother caused him physical pain.
“I see. How soon would you be leaving?”
“Well, it would be right away. There’s kind of a tight schedule and stuff.”
“Oh dear, you mean today?”
“Yeah. Right now, actually.”
“Before your father gets home?”
“We want to head out of town before the evening rush clogs the freeway.”
“Who’s driving?”
“I am. But we’ll split the gas.”
Mrs. Brubaker frowned, but then relaxed into a fond smile. “I suppose, since this is really your last carefree summer, you might as well do it up right. Do you need any money?”
“Well …”
“Use the MasterCard. Just be sure to keep all your receipts.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“And pack some warm clothes.”
“I will. Tell Dad goodbye for me. I’ll tell you both all about the trip when I get back.” He started out the door.
“Wait a minute, when will you be back?”
“A week, maybe two. Nothing’s definite. I’ll let you know.”
She stood up and came over to stand facing her son. He had inherited her good bone structure.
“There’s nothing wrong, is there, Kyle?”
“Wrong?”
“Just asking. You know, I haven’t heard anything from your Uncle Bob since you came back from Wisconsin, and now this sudden trip to Canada …”
He gave her a strong hug. “Nothing’s wrong, Mom. This thing just came up suddenly. Don’t worry.”
He went to his own room and swiftly threw clothes and toilet articles into his bag, feeling like an utter asshole. Nothing’s wrong, Mom. The tongue should be ripped out of his mouth for that one. Everything was wrong.
No time to think about it now, though. He had to get down to the Jeep and get Marianne the hell out of here before somebody saw her, or she came shambling into the house.
Shuddering at the prospect of his mother encountering the decaying girl, he quickly finished packing, planted a goodbye kiss on his mother’s cheek, and ran out to the Jeep. Marianne was waiting for him.
• • •
Driving east on Sunset Boulevard, before he had even reached the San Diego Freeway, Kyle realized he had no idea how to get from Los Angeles to Chicago. His mind had slid into the lie he told his mother, and he was subliminally planning the fantasy trip up the coast to British Columbia. He desperately wished that were the case, instead of the hellish journey he had before him.
He drove on into Beverly Hills and stopped at an Auto Club office for the necessary maps. A helpful clerk outlined with Magic Marker a route that would take him to San Bernadino, up Interstate 15 through Las Vegas to Salt Lake City. Then east 80 through Wyoming, Nebraska and Iowa to Chicago. Looking down at the fat, yellow-inked path twisting two-thirds of the way across the country he saw a bloated graveyard worm. Shivering, he gathered up the maps and left the counter.
“Enjoy your trip,” the clerk called after him.
Kyle could only groan.
• • •
“Do you have a gun?”
Kyle froze halfway into the Jeep. “Gun?”
“You know, bang bang, you’re dead.”
“No, I don’t have a gun.”
“You’d better get one.”
“Why?”
She reached across the seat with a gray, scaly hand and stroked his face. “Because I’m asking you to, lover. And you want to keep me happy.”
How the hell did you go about buying a gun? Kyle had paid little attention to the political flap about gun control. He had never fired a gun in his life. Never expected to. Guns were for police and the juvenile gangs that infested Los Angeles.
He found the O-K Corral Gunshop on Western Avenue in the gritty end of Hollywood. Iron gratings that folded across the front of the store told him what the neighborhood was like.
Under the heavy glass counter top lay a deadly looking array of revolvers and semi-automatic pistols. A clerk in checked shirt and string tie sauntered over.
“Help you?”
“I’m, uh, looking for a gun.”
“We got ‘em. Have anything special in mind?”
Kyle peered down at the deadly little weapons. He tapped the glass above a smooth looking number that reminded him of something James Bond might carry.
“How about this one?”
The clerk unlocked the rear of the cabinet, reached in, and brought out the pistol. “Nice little weapon. Walther PP three-eighty. Holds seven rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. Comes with an extra magazine.”
“How much is it?”
“Reconditioned police trade-in, I can let you have it for $349.99.”
“That much?”
“This is a precision piece of West German machinery, friend. They do not come cheap.”
“Do you take MasterCard?”
“Sure. Happy to.”
While Kyle dug into his wallet for the credit card. He could worry about explaining the purchase later. The clerk reached under the counter and brought up a triplicate form.
“Just fill this out, and we’ll let you know when you can come in and pick up the piece.”
“You’ll let me know?”
“Usually takes about three weeks for the state to okay it.”
“Three weeks? I need it right now.”
The clerk returned the Walther to the showcase and relocked the sliding door in back. “No can do. You know how touchy they are these days about the handgun business.”
Kyle fingered the bills in his wallet. He had about a hundred dollars in cash. “Maybe if I added something to the price?”
“No way, pal. If the boss thought I was doing business on my own I’d be outta here so fast my head would swim.”
Kyle’s heart sank. At least he had tried. Maybe when he explained Marianne would forget about the gun.
“Wait a minute.”
Kyle turned back. The clerk looked around the store to assure himself there were no other customers. “How much cash you got?”
“About a hundred dollars.”
“No way you can touch a piece like this one, but I’ve got a little peashooter in the back room I could let you have. It’s not registered, no questions asked.”
“I’ll take it.”
The gun was a short-barreled .22-caliber revolver with a scarred wooden handgrip and a cylinder that felt loose. The clerk threw in half a box of .22 long rifle cartridges and hurried Kyle out of the store.
As he walked up Western Avenue to where he had parked the Jeep Kyle wondered what it would be like to take the little gun out of the plastic bag, load the cylinder, put the muzzle to the side of his head and pull the trigger. Would he feel anything? Would there be any last thoughts before the bullet burrowed into his brain? Would there be anything afterward? At least he would then be free of the ghastly Marianne.
But even as he conjured the image he knew he could not do it. With his luck he would botch the job, blow away some vital portion of his brain, and live on as a drooling vegetable. No, he would have to find another escape. There had to be one. Didn’t there?
He climbed into the Jeep and passed the package to Marianne. She gave the .22 a cursory look and dropped it into her bag along with the bullets.
“Not much of a gun, but it will have to do,” she said. “Now let’s get going.”