Bad Love (45 page)

“Sounds like you’ve done pretty well since.”

“How kind of you to say so, dear — oh yeah, it’s been a blast. PR’s a bullshit business, so I’m perfect for it. Throwing parties, setting up promos. Feeding rumors to the idiot press. Well, the show must go on. Ciao. It was real, stud.”

She stood and nearly ran out of the restaurant.

I put money on the table and followed her, caught up as she was getting into a red Mustang convertible. The car looked new, but there were dings and dents all along the driver’s side.

“Uh-uh, no more,” she said, starting the engine. “You get a quickie mind-fuck for your ten bucks, and that’s it.”

“Just wanted to thank you,” I said.

“Polite, too,” she said. “I
really
don’t like you.”

Robin said, “Bad love. The hypocrisy.”

“The bastard coins a phrase to describe poor child rearing, but has his own private meaning for it.”

“Victimizing little kids.” Her hands tightened around the handle of a wood rasp. The blade caught on a piece of rosewood, and she pulled it free and put it down.

“And,” I said, “if this woman’s experience was typical, the victimization was perfectly legal. De Bosch didn’t sexually molest anyone, and none of the physical things he did would fall under any child-abuse statutes but Sweden’s.”

“Not the poking and slapping?”

“No bruises, no case, and usually you need deep wounds and broken bones to get anywhere legally. Corporal punishment’s still allowed in many schools. Back then, it was accepted procedure. And there’s never been any law against mind control or psychological abuse — how can you pin down the criteria? Basically, de Bosch behaved like a really rotten parent, and that’s no crime.”

She shook her head. “And no one ever said anything.”

“Maybe some of the children did, but I doubt anyone believed them. These were problem kids. Their credibility was low and their parents were angry. In some cases de Bosch was probably the court of last resort. This woman came back to her family traumatized but perfectly compliant. They never suspected the summer at the school was anything but successful.”

“Some success.”

“We’re talking ultrahigh levels of parental frustration, Rob. Even if what de Bosch did had come to light and some parents had pulled their kids out, I’ll bet you others would have rushed to enroll theirs. De Bosch’s victims never had any legal recourse. Now, one of them’s evening the score his own way.”

“The same old chain,” she said. “Victims and victimizers.”

“The thing that bothers me, though, is why the killer didn’t strike out against de Bosch, only the disciples. Unless de Bosch died before the killer was old enough — or assertive enough — to put together a revenge plot.”

“Or crazy enough.”

“That, too. If I’m right about the killer being directly traumatized by Delmar Parker’s accident, we’re talking about someone who was a student at the school in 1973. De Bosch died seven years later, so the killer may still have been a kid. Felons that young rarely commit carefully planned crimes. They’re more into impulsive stuff. Another thing that could have stopped him from getting de Bosch was being locked up. Jail or a mental institution. That fits with our Mr. Gritz — the ten years unaccounted for between his leaving Georgia and getting arrested here.”

“More frustration,” she said.

“Exactly. Not being able to punish de Bosch directly could have heated him up even further. The first murder occurred five years ago. Myra Paprock. Maybe that was the year he was released. Myra would have been a good target for him. A trusted disciple, dictatorial.”

“Makes sense,” she said, looking down at her workbench and arranging some files, “if de Bosch really killed himself. But what if he was murdered and made to look like a suicide?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “His death was too peaceful — overdose of medication. Why would the killer butcher subordinates and allow the boss to get off so easy? And a ritual approach — one that fulfilled a psychological need — would have meant leaving the best for last, not starting with de Bosch first and working backwards.”

“Best for last,” she said, in a tremulous voice. “So where do you fit in?”

“The only thing I can think of is that damned symposium.”

She started to switch off her tools. The dog tagged after her, stopping each time she did, looking up, as if seeking approval.

“Alex,” she said, removing her apron, “if de Bosch did commit suicide, do you think it could have been due to remorse? It doesn’t mean much, but it would be nice to think of him having some self-doubts.”

“The woman asked me the same thing. I’d have liked to say yes —
she’d
have loved to
hear
it, but she wouldn’t have bought it. The man she described didn’t sound very conscience laden. My guess is his motivation was just what the papers printed: despondence over ill health. The slides his daughter flashed at the symposium showed a physical wreck.”

“A wrecker,” she said.

“Yeah. Who knows how many kids he messed up over the years?”

The dog heard the tension in my voice and cocked his head. I petted him and said, “So who’s the higher life-form, anyway, bub?”

Robin picked up a broom and began to sweep wood shavings.

“Any other calls?” I said, holding the dustpan for her.

“Uh-uh.” She finished and wiped her hands. We stepped out of the garage and she pulled down the door. The mountains across the canyon were clear and greening. Drought-starved shoots, trying for another season.

All at once the big, low house seemed more foreign than ever. We went inside. The furniture looked strange.

In the bedroom, Robin unbuttoned her work shirt and I unsnapped her bra and cupped her breasts. They were warm and heavy in my palms and as I touched her, she arched her back. Then she stepped away from me and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Let’s get out of here, Alex — out of the city.”

“Sure,” I said, looking over at the dog, head-butting the bedcovers. “Do we take him with us?”

“I’m not talking summer vacation, just dinner. Somewhere far enough to feel
different
. He’ll be fine. We’ll leave food and water, the air-conditioning on, give him a couple of chew-bones.”

“Okay, where would you like to go?”

Her smile was barren. “Normally I’d say Santa Barbara.”

I forced myself to laugh. “How about the other direction — Laguna Beach?”

“Laguna would be peachy.” She came over and placed my hands on her hips. “Remember that place with the ocean view?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Calamari and pictures of weeping clowns — wonder if it’s still in business?”

“If it isn’t, there’ll be someplace else. The main thing is we get away.”

We left at seven-thirty, to avoid the freeway jam, taking the truck because the gas tank was fuller. I drove, enjoying the height and the heft and the power. A tape Robin had picked up at McCabe’s was in the deck: a teenager named Allison Krause, singing bluegrass in a voice as sweet and clear as first love and running off fiddle solos that had the wondrous ease of the prodigy.

I hadn’t called Milo to tell him about Meredith.

Another scumbag
, he’d say, world-weary. Then he’d rub his face . . .

I thought of the man on the tape, chanting like a child, reliving his past. . . .

Bad thoughts intruding.

I felt Robin tighten up. Her fingers had been tapping my thigh in time with the music, now they stopped. I squeezed them. Strummed the fingertips, let my hand wander to her small, hard waist as the truck roared in the fast lane.

She had on black leotards under a short denim skirt. Her hair was tied up, showing off her neck, smooth as cream. A man with a functioning brain would have thanked God for sitting next to her.

I pressed my cheek against hers. Let my shoulders drop and bobbed my head to the music. Not fooling her, but she knew I was trying and she put her hand high on my thigh.

A babe and a truck and the open road.

By the time I reached Long Beach, it started to feel real.

Laguna was quieter and darker than I remembered, the art fair over, nearly all the tourist traps and galleries closed.

The place with the squid and clowns was no longer in business; a karaoke bar had taken its place — people getting slogged on margaritas and pretending to be Righteous Brothers. The painful sounds made their way to the sidewalk.

We found a pleasant-looking cafe farther up the street, ate huge, cold salads, decent swordfish, and excellent Chilean sea bass with french fries and coleslaw, and drank a bit of wine, then strong black coffee.

Walking it off, we went far enough past the commercial zone to get an ocean glimpse of our own. The water was a thousand miles of black beyond a white thread of sand. The waves rolled drunkenly, sending up ice chips of spray and an occasional roar that sounded like applause. We held hands so tightly our fingers ached, grabbed at each other, and kissed until our tongues throbbed.

Barely enough light to see Robin’s dark eyes, narrowing.

She bit my lower lip and I knew some of it was passion, the rest, anger. I kissed her behind her ear and we embraced for a long time, then we returned to the truck and drove north, out of town.

“Don’t get on the freeway,” she said. “Drive awhile.”

I got onto Laguna Canyon Road, went for several miles, and made a random turn onto an unmarked strip that corkscrewed up into the mountains.

No talk or music. Her hands on me as she cried out her tension. We passed a pottery studio, its wooden sign barely lit by a dusty bulb. A glimpse of chicken-wire fencing. A couple of horse ranches, an unmarked shack. Then nothing for a long time and the road dead-ended at brush.

Crickets and shadows, the ocean nowhere in sight.

I put the truck in reverse. Robin stopped me and turned off the engine.

We locked eyes and kissed, fumbling with each other’s clothing.

Stripped completely naked, we held each other, shivering, knitting our limbs. Breathing into one another, fighting for oblivion.

The ride back was slow and silent, and I managed to keep reality at bay till we got off the freeway. Robin slept, as she had since we’d crossed the L.A. county line, low in the seat, half smiling.

It was one forty-two in the morning and Sunset was nearly bare of cars. The familiar eastward cruise was solitary and peaceful. As I approached the Beverly Glen intersection, I prepared to shoot through the green light. Then wailing sirens sounded from somewhere I couldn’t pinpoint, surrounding me, growing louder.

I slowed and stopped. Robin was startled, sitting up just as flashing red lights popped out from around the bend and the sirens became unbearable. A hook-and-ladder came at us from the east, bearing down; for an instant I felt trapped. Then the fire engine made a sharp right turn, northward, onto the Glen, followed closely by another fire truck, then another smaller unit. A cherry-topped sedan brought up the rear as the sirens tapered off to a distant whistle.

Robin was clutching the armrest. Her eyes were gigantic, as if the lids had been stapled back.

We looked at each other.

I turned left and followed the shrieking caravan.

A hundred yards in I could smell it. A pot left too long on the stove, overlaid with gasoline.

I put on speed, just able to see the fire car’s taillights. Hoping the company would continue on up, toward Mulholland and beyond. But they hooked west.

Up an old bridle path that led up to a solitary property.

Robin held her head and moaned as I floored the truck. Coming to my street, I sped up the slope. The road was blocked by the newly arrived fire trucks and I had to pull over and park.

Work lights were scattered about, highlighting the firefighters’ yellow hats. Lots of movement, but the night blocked out the details.

Robin and I jumped out and began running up the hill. The burnt stench was stronger now, the sky a black, camouflaging host for the plumes of dark smoke that shot upward in greasy gray spirals. I could feel the fire — the caustic heat — better than I could see it. My body was drenched with sweat. I was cold to the marrow.

The firefighters were uncoiling hoses and shouting, too busy to notice us.

What had once been my pond gate was charcoal. The carport had collapsed and the entire right side of my house was smoldering. The back of the building was haloed in orange. Tongues of fire licked the sky. Sparks jumped and died, wood crackled and crashed.

A tall firefighter handed a hose to another man and pulled off his gloves. He saw us and came forward, gesturing us back.

We walked toward him.

“It’s our house,” I said.

The look of pity on his face cut me deeply. He was black, with a big jaw and wide, dark mustache. “Sorry, folks — we’re working hard on it, got here as quick as we could from the Mulholland substation. Reinforcements just came in from Beverly Hills.”

Robin said, “Is it all gone?”

He removed his hat and wiped his forehead, exhaling. “It wasn’t as of a few minutes ago, ma’am, and we’ve controlled it — you should start to see that smoke turn white real soon.”

“How bad is it?”

He hesitated. “To be frank, ma’am, you’ve suffered some serious structural damage all along the rear. What with the drought and all that wood siding — your roof’s half gone, must have been pretty dry up there. What was it, ceramic tile?”

“Some sort of tile,” I said. “It came with the house, I don’t know.”

“Those old roofs . . . give thanks it wasn’t wood shingle, that would have been like a pile of kindling.”

Robin was looking at him but she wasn’t listening to him. He bit his lip, started to place a hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself. Putting his glove back on, he turned to me.

“If the wind doesn’t do squirrely things, we should be able to save some of it. Get you in there soon as possible to start taking a look.”

Robin started to cry.

The fireman said, “I’m real sorry, ma’am — if you need a blanket, we’ve got some in the truck.”