Blood Test (32 page)

Matthias looked up at the stars. Mumbled something.
Closed his eyes and began chanting wordlessly. The others joined in. The sound
was raw and atonal, a primal wail, passionately pagan. When they reached a
crescendo, I sprinted to the viaduct and ran straight for the front gates.

Graffius was lying a few feet from where I’d placed
him, twisting like a worm on a griddle, struggling to get free. He seemed to be
breathing well. I left him there.

I HADN’T found what I was looking for. But between
Swope’s journals and the file I’d taken from Matthias’s room I had plenty for
show and tell. No doubt my pilferage violated all the rules of evidence, but
what I’d found would be enough to get things going.

It was just past two A.M. I got behind the wheel of
the Seville, adrenalized and hyperalert. Starting up the engine, I organized my
thoughts: I’d drive to Oceanside, find a phone and call Milo or, if he was
still in Washington, Del Hardy. It shouldn’t take long to notify the proper
authorities, and with luck the investigation could commence before dawn.

It was more important than ever to avoid La Vista. I
turned the car around in the direction of the utility road and rolled into the
dark. I passed the Swope place, Maimon’s nursery, the homesteads and the citrus
groves, and had reached the plateau of the foothills when the other car
materialized from the west.

I heard it before seeing it—its headlights, like mine,
were off. There was just enough moonlight to identify the make as it sped past.
A late model Corvette, dark, possibly black, its snout nosing the asphalt. The
rumble of an oversized engine. A rear spoiler. Shiny mag wheels.

But it wasn’t until I saw the big fat tires that I
changed my plans.

The Corvette turned left. I shot the intersection,
turned right and followed, lagging far enough behind to stay out of earshot and
struggling to keep the low dark chassis in view from that distance. Whoever was
behind the wheel knew the road well and drove like a teenage joyrider, popping
the clutch, downshifting around curves without breaking, accelerating with a
roar that signaled impending redline.

The road turned to dirt. The Corvette chewed it up
like a four-wheeler. The Seville’s suspension shimmied but I held on. The other
car slowed at the sealed entrance to the oilfields, turned sharply and drove
along the perimeter of the mesa. It accelerated and sped on, hugging the fence,
casting an incision-thin shadow against the chain link.

The abandoned fields stretched for miles, as desolate
as a moonscape. Moist craters pocked the terrain. The fossils of tractors and
trucks rose from the sump. Row after row of dormant wells encased in grid-sided
towers erupted from the tortured earth, creating the illusion of a skyline.

The Corvette was there one moment, gone the next. I
braked quickly but quietly, and coasted forward. There was a car-sized gap in the
fence. The chain link was ragged and curly-edged around the opening, as if it
had unraveled under the force of giant shears. Tire tracks etched the dirt.

I drove through, parked behind a rusted derrick, got
out, and inspected the ground.

The Corvette’s tires had created dual caterpillars
that wove a corridor through convex metal walls: oil drums were stacked
three-high, forming a hundred yards of barricade. The night air stank of tar
and burnt rubber.

The corridor terminated in a clearing. In the open
space sat an old mobile home on blocks. A smudge of light filtered through a
single curtained window. The door was unadorned plywood. A few feet away was
the sleek black car.

The driver’s door opened. I pressed back, flat against
the oil drums. A man got out, arms full, keys dangling from his fingertips. He
carried four shopping bags as if they were weightless. Walking to the door of
the mobile home, he knocked once, three times, then once again, and let himself
in.

He stayed in there for half an hour, emerged carrying
an axe, laid it on the Corvette’s passenger seat, and got behind the wheel.

I waited ten minutes after he’d driven away before
walking to the door and imitating his knock. When there was no response, I
repeated it. The door opened. I looked into wide-set eyes the color of
midnight.

“Back so soo—” The straight wide mouth froze in
surprise. She tried to slam the door shut. I put my foot in and pressed. She
pushed back. I got in and she edged away from me.

“You!” The girl was wild-eyed and beautiful. Her
flaming hair had been tied up and pinned. A few fine strands had come loose,
haloing the long supple neck. Two thin hoops pierced each ear. She wore
cut-offs and a white midriff blouse. Her belly was tan and flat, her legs
smooth and miles-long, tapering to bare feet. She’d painted her fingernails and
toenails hunter green.

The trailer was partitioned into rooms. We were in a
cramped yellow kitchen that smelled of mildew. One of the shopping bags had
already been emptied. The other three sat on the counter. She fumbled in the
dish drainer, came up with a plastic-handled bread knife.

“Get out of here or I’ll cut you. I swear it!”

“Put it down, Nona,” I said softly. “I’m not here to
hurt you.”

“
Bullshit!
Just like the others.” She held the knife
with both hands. The serrated blade made a wobbly arc. “Get out!”

“I know what was done to you. Hear me out.”

She went slack and looked puzzled. For a moment I
thought I’d calmed her. I took a step closer. Her young face contorted with
hurt and rage.

She took a deep breath and lunged at me, knife held
high.

I stepped away from the thrust. She plunged the blade
where my thorax had been, stabbed air, and pitched forward awkwardly. I caught
her wrist, squeezed and shook.

The knife fell, clicking against grubby linoleum. She
went for my eyes with long green nails, but I got hold of both of her arms. She
was delicately built, the bones fragile under smooth soft skin, but
strengthened by anger. She kicked and coiled and spat, managed to gouge my cheek.
On my bad side. I felt a warm trail flow ticklishly down the side of my face,
then a sharp sting. Burgundy splotches dotted the floor.

I pinioned her arms to her sides. She went stiff,
staring at me with the terror of a wounded animal. Suddenly she darted her face
forward. I jerked back to avoid being bitten. Her tongue snaked out and caught
a droplet of blood on its tip. She ran it over her lips, rouging them wetly.
Forced a smile.

“I’ll drink you,” she said huskily. “Do anything you
want. If you leave afterwards.”

“That’s not what I’m after.”

“It would be if you knew. I can make you feel things
you’ve never imagined.” It was a line from a low-budget skinflick, but she took
it seriously, grinding her pelvis against mine. She licked me once more and
made a show of swallowing the blood.

“Stop it,” I said, arching away.

“Aw, c’mon.” She wriggled. “You’re a hunk. Those nice
blue eyes and all of those thick dark curls. I bet your cock is just as pretty,
huh?”

“Enough, Nona.”

She pouted and kept rubbing against me. Her skin was
saturated with musky dimestore cologne.

“Don’t be angry, Blue Eyes. There’s nothing wrong with
being a big healthy guy with a big gnarly cock. I can feel it now. Right
there.
Oh yeah, it’s
big.
I’d
love
to play with it. Put it in my mouth.
Swallow
you.
Drink
you.” She batted her lashes. “I’ll take off my clothes and
let you play with me while I do you.”

She tried to lick me again. I freed one hand and
slapped her hard across the face.

She reeled backward, stunned, and looked at me with
little-girl surprise.

“You’re a human being,” I said. “Not a piece of meat.”

“I’m a cunt!”
She screamed and tore at her hair, ripping loose the long ginger tendrils.

“Nona—”

She shuddered with self-loathing, sculpted her hands
into quivering hooks. But this time they were aimed at her own flesh, inches
from ripping open that exquisite face.

I grabbed her and held her tight. She fought me,
cursing, then exploded into sobs. She seemed to curl up and diminish in size,
crying on my shoulder. When the tears wouldn’t come anymore, she collapsed
against my chest, mute and limp.

I carried her to a chair, sat her down, wiped her face
with a tissue and pressed another against my cheek. Most of the bleeding had
stopped. I retrieved the knife and tossed it in the sink.

She was staring at the table. I cupped her chin in my
hand. The inky eyes were glazed and unfocused.

“Where’s Woody?”

“Back there,” she said dully. “Sleeping.”

“Show me.”

She rose unsteadily. A shredded plastic shower curtain
divided the trailer. I guided her through it.

The back room was stuffy and dim and furnished with
thrift shop remnants. The walls were paneled with fake birch, scarred white. A
filling station calendar hung lopsided from a roofing nail. Digital time beamed
forth from a plastic clock radio atop a plastic Parsons table. On the floor was
a pile of teen magazines. A blue velveteen sleeper sofa had been opened to a
queen-size bed.

Woody slept under faded paisley covers, coppery curls
spreading on the pillow. On the adjacent nightstand were comic books, a toy
truck, an uneaten apple, a bottle of pills. Vitamins.

His breathing was regular but labored, his lips
swollen and dry. I touched his cheek.

“He’s very hot,” I told her.

“It’ll break,” she said defensively. “I’ve been giving
him vitamin C for it.”

“Has it helped yet?”

She looked away and shook her head.

“He needs to be in a hospital, Nona.”

“No!” She bent down, took his small head in her arms.
Pressed her cheek to his and kissed his eyelids. He smiled in his sleep.

“I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“There’s no phone,” she proclaimed with childish
triumph. “Go leave to find one. We’ll be gone when you get back.”

“He’s very sick,” I said patiently. “Every hour we
delay puts him in greater danger. We’ll go together, in my car. Get your things
ready.”

“They’ll
hurt
him!” she screamed. “Just like
before. Sticking needles in his bones! Putting him in that plastic jail!”

“Listen to me, Nona. He has
cancer.
He could
die from it.” She turned away.

“I don’t believe it.”

I held her shoulders.

“You’d better. It’s true.”

“Why? Cause that beaner doctor said so? He’s just like
all the others. Can’t be trusted.” She cocked her hip the way she’d done in the
hospital corridor. “Why should it be cancer? He never smoked or polluted
himself! He’s just a little kid.”

“Kids get cancer, too. Thousands of them each year. No
one knows why but they do. Almost all of them can be treated and some can be
cured. Woody’s one of them. Give him a chance.”

She frowned stubbornly.

“They were poisoning him in that place.”

“You need strong drugs to kill the disease. I’m not
saying it’ll be painless but medical treatment’s the only thing that can save
his life.”

“S’that what the beaner told you to tell me?”

“No. It’s what I’m telling you myself. You don’t have
to go back to Dr. Melendez-Lynch. We’ll find another specialist. In San Diego.”

The boy cried out in his sleep. She ran to him, sang a
low, wordless lullaby, and stroked his hair. He quieted.

She rocked him in her arms. A child cradling a child.
The flawless features trembled on the brink of collapse. The tears started
again, in a torrent that streamed down her face.

“If we go to a hospital they’ll take him away from me.
I can take care of him best right here.”

“Nona,” I said, summoning all my compassion, “there
are things even a mother can’t do.”

The rocking ceased for a moment, then resumed.

“I was at your parents’ house tonight. I saw the
greenhouse and read your father’s notebooks.” She gave a start. It was the
first she’d heard of the journals. But she suppressed the surprise and
pretended to ignore me.

I continued to talk softly. “I know what you’ve been
through. It started after the death of the cherimoyas. He was probably
unbalanced all along, but failure and helplessness drove him over the edge. He
tried to get back in control by playing God. By creating his own world.”

She stiffened, withdrew from the boy, put his head
down on the pillow tenderly, and walked out of the room. I followed her into
the kitchen, keeping an eye on the knife in the sink. Stretching, she took a
bottle of Southern Comfort from a high cupboard shelf, poured a coffee cup half
full, and, leaning rangily against the counter, swallowed. Unaccustomed to hard
drinking, she grimaced and went into a paroxysm of coughing as it hit bottom.

I patted her back and eased her to a chair. She took
the bottle with her. I sat opposite her, waited until she’d stopped hacking to
continue.