Grace Doll (7 page)

After a thorough check of every door in the house, I shut myself in the bedroom. One last check out the window: the car‘s gone.

Still, when I try to relax enough to fall asleep, I can’t.

I spend most of the night staring at the photograph of Grace Doll propped against the base of the lamp on my nightstand.

Grace Doll.

She’s alive.

Chapter Six

The next morning I shower, dress in jeans, a tee shirt and hoodie, and grab my backpack. Dad’s letter seems to beg me to take it. I wouldn’t put it past Judy to go through my things so I stuff it, and the picture of Grace Doll, into my pocket alongside the safe deposit box key.

Judy’s shuffling slippers scratch at the morning quiet. She’s somewhere in the house. I make a beeline for the front door, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling, ready for her to—

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“Out.”

“You pulling one of your father’s disappearing acts?”

“Job hunting,” I lie.

“You’d better. You have two weeks.” She screeches from the open door. “When are you going to tell me what Dick wanted, anyway? I deserve to know!
Debile
!”

Judy swears in French. Like it’s any better coming out of her in another language? I snort. Morning air chases me along the brick pathway to where the VW van is parked at the side of the house.

Truth is I don’t know where I’m going, I just know I’m not staying at the house. If Dad’s life with Judy was anything like mine is, I feel sorry for him. Why did he stay with her? How much torture could a man take?

Screw this.

I head to the beach.

I crank the old AM radio. Ancient rock rasps out of dashboard speakers. It’s hard to concentrate on the road, my insides are so jumbled.

I just don’t know what I want to do with myself.

It’s then I notice the black Bentley behind me. How long has it been tailing me? Maybe it’s not following me. There are a million Bentleys in Los Angeles. But this one doesn’t have a license plate on the front.

Gaze flicking to my rearview mirror, I take the first right I come to just to see if the car stays with me. It does. Too bad I’m driving the van. I could really use something with guts.

I take another fast right. So does the Bentley.

Smashing my foot down on the brake pedal, I force the van to stop. Car in park, I leap out the door and into the path of the oncoming vehicle. It screeches to a stop. The windows are black, I can’t see in. I race around to the drivers’ side and slap my palms on the window. “Come on, get out! Let’s do this!”

Whoever is driving presses on the gas. The car rounds my van in a burst of acceleration. No plates on the back.

My heart’s racing. The car looks just like the one outside Dad’s house last night.

I pull out my cell phone and call Rufus Solomon.

“Brenden.”

“Are you following me?”

“I’m at my home. Can we meet today?”

“Is one of your people following me?”

“My people have more important things to do then follow a teenager around. Can we meet today?”

My heart finally starts to slow. I’m standing in an empty street, the van idling. If this guy isn’t following me, then who is? Warning swarms inside my gut. “I can’t today.” I end the call and get back in the van.

My cell phone rings again. I don’t answer. Mr. Solomon’s perseverance slivers like ticks under my skin. Edgy, I continue driving to the beach. When I finally arrive, I park, get out and stare at the angry sea. Fog sneaks close to shore. The air is uncommonly cool for January, but I always keep an extra wetsuit in the car. I’m not sure I want to surf. Today, red flags dot the beach, the lifeguard station. Nobody’s in the water. A few people walk dogs along the cement path cutting through the sand. Other than that the place stretches on in emptiness.

If I dive in I won’t come out, not with the ocean thrashing like it is.

My cell phone rings again. This time it’s Judy. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

Give me a chance to breathe.

I grab my sketchbook, pencil and cross the cool sand. Crashing waves, wind, and the call of seagulls usually soothe but my cell phone keeps ringing, interrupting my efforts to chill. I put the phone on vibrate and shove it in my backpack.

Sand cradles me when I plop down, settle in. I take a deep breath. My pencil scratches over the paper in short, jagged bursts sketching the choppy mass of sea. My phone vibrates continually.

I rip the page from the sketchbook, crush it between my fists, stuff it in my backpack. Take another deep breath of thick, sea air. Start over.

Dad loved that I drew. “You’ve got a gift, that’s wonderful. Have you considered art school?” he’d asked.

“Art’s not what you call a real job.”

He eyed me. “I faired pretty well.”

Yeah.
It’s hard not to let resentment infect me. Of course I’d like to spend the rest of my life creating.

Once, when Judy had been away and I’d been at the house for one of our once-a-month visits, he’d taken me into his office, shut the door and unlocked the top drawer of his desk. He’d pulled out the snapshot of Grace Doll—the one from the safe deposit box— and said, “There’s a face for you to draw.”

After I’d sketched the photo, Dad wanted it, but Mom got first dibs on anything I drew. Mom took one look at the Grace Doll image and her eyes had widened. She’d examined the drawing: Grace’s long dark hair—the floppy hat— peasant blouse. I could tell by the look on her face she was conflicted. “It was a color photograph?”

I nodded.

Mom looked off in thought, then back at my sketch.

“Have you ever seen it before?”

She shook her head and handed me the drawing. “No.” An odd silence had tightened the air.”But then there are probably a lot of pictures of Grace Doll out there the world hasn’t seen.”

I hadn’t had the heart to tell her Dad had kept that one locked away in his desk.

“You think I could get anything for the sketch?”I’d asked.

“A Grace Doll sketch that good? Why not?”

I ended up entering the piece in a contest at the Hollywood Civic Center for young artists and I won five hundred dollars.

The sketch sold to a collector.

Dad was angry I’d sold it. He didn’t talk to me for three months after that.

That was the only money I’d ever made with my drawings. Mom didn’t mind my love of art—as a hobby. But she wanted me to major in something practical like business or law. I got that.

My pencil seems to draw of its own accord now. Soft, rounded strokes. Cheeks. Eyes. Wispy hair, blown by the sea breeze.

Grace Doll.

The picture from the safe deposit box comes to life in my head. Her eyes blink. Her lips part, as if she’s going to say something.

I darken the sky around her face using fingertips to smudge in angry clouds. Her eyes look at me with that look I can’t identify. She’s got a smile that steals your soul, and I spend forever making sure I catch that essence in my sketch.

By the time I finish, the sky over my head is two shades darker, the temperature in the air has dropped a few degrees. I hold the drawing in my hands and stare at it.

She’s alive.

I’ve purged myself and finally rise, gathering my crumpled papers. I cross the empty sand back to the street.
You can’t run away from what life gives you,
Mom used to say. Her death taught me that. The pain is deep, and penetrating as a sunburn, and feels like it’ll never go away.

Solomon’s not going away unless I make him go away. I’d rather do anything than return to Dad’s house. If I meet with the man, it’ll kill some time, and I’ll make some money. Maybe Judy will be asleep if I can b.s. the old guy long enough.

I retrieve my phone. Fifteen calls from Judy, twelve from Solomon. Jeez.

I hit Solomon’s number and wait.

“Yes Brenden?”

“I can meet now.

A long pause follows. “Twenty-one Chalon Road. I’ll expect you within the hour.” Click.

Who does this guy think he is? Part of me wants to call him back and tell him to shove his demands where the sun doesn’t shine. But I need the money, and I’ve got the day.

I head to Beverly Hills.

This winter’s the coldest it’s ever been in Los Angeles. I shudder, crank the heater—which labors to blow warm air. I plug my earbuds in, but the rock blasting from my iPod doesn’t distract me.

What does the man want?

It’s hard to see addresses in this part of Beverly Hills. Everything’s designed to hide. I round the corner of a massive property surrounded by a wall covered in ivy. A scary looking black iron gate closes off the driveway. A stone plaque in the brick arch houses the address.

I stop at the security tower. A camera, a phone. I pick up the phone. It rings once.

“Hello?” A voice addresses me.

“I’m here to see Mr. Solomon.”

“Name?”

“Brenden Lane.”

“Proceed.” Click.

On top of the ivy-drenched walls sit cylindrical video cameras. The gates slowly open. A narrow, foliage-lined drive seems to never end, winding around and around. At the top I see the mansion: white stucco with a red tile roof. Its windows, French doors, and balconies are shrouded and dripping in red bougainvillea.

I round the fountain and park. The fountain is King Neptune, surrounded by mermaids holding their breasts while water spews.
Okay.

A fourteen-foot door made of hand-carved wood sits deep inside a mosaic-tiled vestibule. I lift the brass knocker and let it fall, sending a clang into the cool air and echoing beyond the thick barrier, through the house.

The door opens. I’m greeted by the silver-haired man who approached me yesterday at the beach. He plasters a fake smile on his face. “Brenden. Please come in.”

I step into a two-story entry. The floors are laid with big red tiles and an elegant stairway curves up to the second level. The place smells like a funeral. The walls are white. White flowers of every kind crowd cubby holes, spill from giant vases, and stretch out on tabletops.

“Follow me, please.” I trail the silver-haired man down a hall and through a wide, arched opening. We step down into a spacious room. Dark beams hold up white vaulted ceilings. Everything’s white. Couches, chairs—retro furniture like I’ve just stepped on an old 40s movie set.

In this room, portraits of Grace Doll cover every inch of wall space. Is the old man going to drill me about her?

My stride slows. I don’t want to stare, but can’t stop myself. She’s beyond beautiful, her round eyes like lonely mirrors, begging me to keep looking. Then I see it. My sketch—framed in black—sits on a table next to a couch. My heart dips. My escort clears his throat. I notice we’re not alone. A bald man sits in a huge black wing chair facing French doors that look out to a garden and a pool, pool house, and cabana. I only see the top of his head, and his hand, resting on the arm of the chair. His scalp is mealy, blotched red. His hands are the same.

The servant faces his employer. “Brenden Lane is here.” The assistant gestures me over. I round the chair, eyes latched on who I assume is Rufus Solomon.

Bile shoots up my throat. Black eyes peer at me through a face disfigured with taut scar tissue pulled over bone.

“Mr. Solomon, Brenden Lane.”

Solomon’s lips are raw, gleaming slits. “Mr. Lane.”

Disgust shackles my muscles and bones.
What happened to him?