The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove (11 page)

Theo's face was becoming strained with the effort of trying to figure out what in the hell Gabe was trying to tell him, and why he was telling him in the first place. “What does that mean?”

“I have no idea,” Gabe said. “I don't know why there
was a mass evacuation of the large group, and I don't know why the smaller group stayed in one place copulating.”

“Well, thanks for sharing.”

“Food and sex,” Gabe said.

“Maybe you should eat something, Gabe.” Theo signaled for the waitress.

“What do you mean, food and sex?” Val asked.

“All behavior is related to obtaining food and sex,” Gabe said.

“How Freudian.”

“No, Darwinian, actually.”

Val leaned forward and Gabe caught a whiff of her perfume. She actually seemed interested now. “How can you say that? Behavior is much more complex than that.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. And whatever this is, this radio rat study of yours proves it.” She swiveled the screen of the laptop so they all could see it. “You have six rats that were engaged in sex, but if I have this straight, you have, well, a lot of rats that just took off for no reason at all. Right?”

“There was a reason, I just don't know it yet.”

“But it wasn't food and it obviously wasn't sex.”

“I don't know yet. I suppose they could have been exposed to television violence.”

Theo was sitting back and watching now, enjoying two people with three decades of education between them puffing up like schoolyard bullies.

“I'm a psychiatrist, not a psychologist. Our discipline has moved more toward physiological causes for behavior over the last thirty years, or hadn't you heard?” Val Riordan was actually grinning now.

“I'm aware of that. I'm having the brain chemistry worked up on animals from both groups to see if there's a neurochemical explanation.”

“How do you do that again?” Theo asked.

“You grind up their brains and analyze the chemicals,” Gabe said.

“That's got to hurt,” Theo said.

Val Riordan laughed. “I only wish I could diagnose my patients that way. Some of them anyway.”

Val

Val Riordan couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed herself, but she suspected it was when she'd attended the Neiman-Marcus sale in San Francisco two years ago. Food and sex indeed. This guy was so naive. But still, she hadn't seen anyone so passionate about pure research since med school, and it was nice to think about psychiatry in terms other than financial. She found herself wondering how Gabe Fenton would look in a suit, after a shower and a shave, after he'd been boiled to kill the parasites. Not bad, she thought.

Gabe said, “I can't seem to identify any outside stimulus for this behavior, but I have to eliminate the possibility that it's something chemical or environmental. If it's affecting the rats, it might be affecting other species too. I've seen some evidence of that.”

Val thought about the wave of horniness that seemed to have washed over all of her patients in the last two days. “Could it be in the water, do you think? Something that might affect us?”

“Could be. If it's chemical, it would take longer to affect a mammal as large as a human. You two haven't seen anything unusual in the last few days, have you?”

Theo nearly spit his coffee out. “This town's a bug-house.”

“I'm not allowed to talk about my patients specifically,” Val said. She was shaken. Of course there was
some weird behavior. She'd caused it, hadn't she, by taking fifteen hundred people off of their medication at once? She had to get out of here. “But in general, Theo is right.”

“I am?” Theo said.

“He is?” Gabe said.

Jenny had returned to the table to fill their coffees. “Sorry I overheard, but I'd have to agree with Theo too.”

They all looked at her, then at each other. Val checked her watch. “I've got to get to an appointment. Gabe, I'd like to hear the results of the brain chemistry test.”

“You would?”

“Yes.”

Val put some money on the table and Theo picked it up and handed it back to her, along with the dollar he'd put there earlier for her fee. “I need to talk to you about that other matter, Val.”

“Call me. I don't know if I can help though. Bye.”

Val left the cafe actually looking forward to seeing her patients, if for no other reason than to imagine grinding up each of their brains. Anything to address the responsibility of driving an entire town crazy. But perhaps by driving them a little crazy, she could save some of them from self-destruction: not a bad reason for going to work.

Gabe

“I've got to go too,” Theo said, standing up. “Gabe, should I have the county test the water or something? I have to go into San Junipero to the county building today anyway.”

“Not yet. I can do a general toxins and heavy metals test. I do them all the time for the frog population studies.”

“You wanna walk out with me?”

“I have to order something to go for Skinner.”

“Didn't you say that you had ten rats that diverged from the pack?”

“Yes, but I could only find six.”

“What happened to the other four?”

“I don't know. They just disappeared. Funny, these chips are nearly indestructible too. Even if the animals are dead, I should be able to pick them up with the satellites.”

“Out of range maybe?”

“Not a chance, the coverage is over two hundred miles. More if I look for them.”

“Then where did they go?”

“They last showed up down by the creek. Near the Fly Rod Trailer Court.”

“You're kidding. That's where the Plotznik kid was last seen.”

“You want to see the map?”

“No, I believe you. I've got to go.” Theo turned to leave.

Gabe caught him by the shoulder. “Theo, is, uh…”

“What?”

“Is Val Riordan single?”

“Divorced.”

“Do you think she likes me?”

Theo shook his head. “Gabe, I understand. I spend too much time alone too.”

“What? I was just asking.”

“I'll see you.”

“Hey, Theo, you look, uh, well, more alert today.”

“Not stoned, you mean?”

“Sorry, I didn't mean…”

“It's okay, Gabe. Thanks, I think.”

“Hang tough.”

Jenny

As Jenny passed Estelle Boyet's table, she heard the old Black gentleman say, “We don't need to tell nobody nothin'. Been fifty years since I seen that thing. It probably done gone back to the sea.”

“Still,” Estelle said, “there's a little boy missing. What if the two are connected?”

“Ain't nobody ever called you a crazy nigger, did they?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Well, they have me. For some twenty years after I talked about that thing the last time. I ain't sayin' nothin' to no one. It's our secret, girl.”

“I like it when you call me girl,” Estelle said.

Jenny went off to the kitchen, trying to put the morning together in her mind, pieces of conversations as surreal as a Dali jigsaw puzzle. There was definitely something going on in Pine Cove.

Molly

Pine Cove was a decorative town—built for show—only one degree more functional than a Disneyland attraction and decidedly lacking in businesses and services that catered to residents rather than tourists. The business district included ten art galleries, five wine-tasting rooms, twenty restaurants, eleven gift and card shops, and one hardware store. The position of hardware clerk in Pine Cove was highly coveted by the town's retired male population, for nowhere else could a man posture well past his prime, pontificate, and generally indulge in the arrogant self-important chest-pounding of an alpha male without having a woman intercede to remind him that he was patently full of shit.

Crossing the threshold of Pine Cove Hardware and breaking the beam that rang the bell was tantamount to setting off a testosterone alarm, and if they'd had their way, the clerks would have constructed a device to atomize the corners with urine every time the bell tolled. Or at least that's the way it seemed to Molly when she entered that Saturday morning.

The clerks, three men, broke from their heated argument on the finer points of installing a wax toilet seal ring to stare, snicker, and make snide comments under their breath about the woman who had entered their domain.
Molly breezed past the counter, focusing on an aisle display of gopher poison to avoid eye contact. Raucous laughter erupted from the clerks when she turned down the aisle for roofing supplies.

The clerks, Frank, Bert, and Les—all semiretired, balding, paunchy, and generally interchangeable, except that Frank wore a belt to hold up his double knits, while the other two sported suspenders fashioned to look like yellow measuring tape—planned to make Molly beg. Oh, they'd let her wander around for a while, let her try to comprehend the arcane function of the gizmos, geegaws, and widgets binned and bubble-wrapped around the store. Then she would have to come back to the counter and submit. It was Frank's turn to do the condescending, and he would do his best to drop-kick her ego before finally leading the little lady to the appropriate product, where he would continue to question her into full humiliation. “Well, is it a sheet metal screw or a wood screw? Three-eighths or seven-sixteenths? Do you have a hex head screwdriver? Well, then, you'll need one, won't you? Are you sure you wouldn't rather just call someone to do this for you?” Tears and/or sniffles from the customer would signal victory and confirm superior status for the male race.

Frank, Bert, and Les watched Molly on the security monitor, exchanged some comments about her breasts, laughed nervously after five minutes passed without her surrender, and tried to look busy when she emerged from the aisle carrying a five-gallon can of roof-patching tar, a roll of fiberglass fabric, and a long-handled squeegee.

Molly stood at the counter, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Bert and Les squinted into a catalog set on a rotating stand while concentrating on sucking in their guts. Frank manned the register and pretended he was doing something complex on the keyboard, when, in fact, he was just making it beep.

Molly cleared her throat.

Frank looked up as if he'd just noticed she was there. “Find everything you need?”

“I think so,” Molly said, taking both hands to lift the heavy can of tar onto the counter.

“You need some resin for that fiberglass fabric?” Les said.

“And some hardener?” Bert said. Frank snickered.

“Some what?” Molly said.

“You can't patch a trailer roof with that stuff, miss. You live down at the Fly Rod, don't you?” They all knew who she was and where she lived. She was often the subject of hardware store gossip and speculation, even though she'd never set foot in there before today.

“I'm not going to patch a roof.”

“Well, you can't use that on a driveway. You need asphalt sealer, and it should be applied with a brush, not a squeegee.”

“How much do I owe you?” Molly said.

“You should wear a respirator when you work with fiberglass. You have one at home, right?” Bert asked.

“Yeah, right next to the elves and the gnomes,” Les said.

Molly didn't flinch.

“He's right,” Frank said. “Those fibers get down in your lungs and they could do you a world of harm, especially with those lungs.”

The clerks all laughed at the joke.

“I've got a respirator out in the truck,” Les said. “I could come by after work and give you a hand with your little project.”

“That would be great,” Molly said. “What time?”

Les balked. “Well, I, um…”

“I'll pick up some beer.” Molly smiled. “You guys should come along too. I could really use the help.”

“Oh, I think Les can handle it, can't you, Les?” Frank
said as he hit the total key. “That comes to thirty-seven sixty-five with tax.”

Molly counted her money out on the counter. “So I'll see you tonight?”

Les swallowed hard and forced a smile. “You bet,” he said.

“Thanks then,” Molly said brightly. Then she picked up her supplies and headed for the door.

As she broke the doorbell beam, Frank whispered “Crazy slut” under his breath.

Molly stopped, turned slowly, and winked.

Once she was outside, the clerks made miserable old white guy attempts at trading high-fives while patting Les on the back. It was a hardware store fantasy fulfilled—much better than just humiliating a woman, Les would get to humiliate her and get her naked as well. For some reason they'd all been feeling a little randy lately, thinking about sex almost as often as power tools.

“My wife is going to kill me,” Les said.

“What she don't know won't hurt her,” the other two said in unison.

Theo

Theo actually felt his stomach lurch when he went into his victory garden and clipped a handful of sticky buds from his pot plants. They weren't for himself this time, but the reminder of how much this little patch of plants ruled his life made him ill. And how was it that he hadn't felt the need to fire up his Sneaky Pete for three days? A twenty-year drug habit suddenly ends? No withdrawal, no side effects, no cravings? The freedom was almost nauseating. It was as if the Weirdness Fairy had landed in his life with a thump, popped him on the head with a
rubber chicken, bit him on the shin, then went off to inflict herself on the rest of Pine Cove.

He stuffed the marijuana into a plastic bag, tucked it into his jacket pocket, and climbed into the Volvo for the forty-mile drive to San Junipero. He was going to have to enter the bowels of the county justice building and face the Spider to find out what he wanted to know. The pot was grease for the Spider. He would stop by a convenience store on the way down and pick up a bag full of snacks to augment the bribe. The Spider was difficult, arrogant, and downright creepy, but he was a cheap date.

 

Through the safety-glass window, Theo could see the Spider sitting in the middle of his web: five computer screens with data scrolling across them illuminated the Spider with an ominous blue glow. The only other light in the room came from tiny red and green power indicator lights that shone through the darkness like crippled stars. Without looking away from his screens, the Spider buzzed Theo in.

“Crowe,” the Spider said, not looking up.

“Lieutenant,” Theo said.

“Call me Nailgun,” the Spider said.

His name was Irving Nailsworth and his official position in the San Junipero Sheriff's Department was chief technical officer. He was five-foot-five inches tall, weighed three hundred and thirty pounds, and had taken to wearing a black beret when he perched in his web. Early on, Nailsworth had seen that nerds would rule the world, and he had staked out his own little information fiefdom in the basement of the county jail. Nothing happened without the Spider knowing about it. He monitored and controlled all the information that moved about the county, and before anyone recognized what sort of power that afforded, he had made himself indispensable to the system. He had never arrested a suspect, touched a firearm,
or set foot in a patrol car, yet he was the third-highest-ranking officer on the force.

Besides a taste for raw data, the Spider had weaknesses for junk food, Internet porn, and high-quality marijuana. The latter was Theo's key to the Spider's lair. He put the plastic Baggie on the keyboard in front of Nailsworth. Still without looking at Theo, the Spider opened the bag and sniffed, pinched a bud between his fingers, then folded the bag up and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

“Nice,” he said. “What do you need?” He peeled the marshmallow cap off a Hostess Sno Ball, shoved it into his mouth, then threw the cake into a wastebasket at his feet.

Theo set the bag of snacks down next to the wastebasket. “I need the autopsy report on Bess Leander.”

The Nailgun nodded, no easy task for a man with no discernible neck. “And?”

Theo wasn't sure what questions to ask. Nailsworth seldom volunteered information, you had to ask the right question. It was like talking to a rotund Sphinx. “I was wondering if you could come up with something that might help me find Mikey Plotznik.” Theo knew he didn't have to explain. The Spider would know all about the missing kid.

The Spider reached into the bag at his feet and pulled out a Twinkie. “Let me pull up the autopsy.” His fat fingers flew over the keyboard. “You need a printout?”

“That would be nice.”

“It doesn't show you as the investigating officer.”

“That's why I came to you. The M.E.'s office wouldn't let me see the report.”

“Says here cause of death was cardiac arrest due to asphyxiation. Suicide.”

“Yes, she hung herself.”

“I don't think so.”

“I saw the body.”

“I know. Hanging in the dining room.”

“So what do you mean, you don't think so?

“The ligature marks on her neck were postmortem, according to this. Neck wasn't broken, so she didn't drop suddenly.”

Theo squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the data. “There were heel marks on the wall. She had to have hung herself. She was depressed, taking Zoloft for it.”

“Not according to the toxicology.”

“What?”

“They ran the toxicology for antidepressants because you put it on the report, but there was nothing.”

“It says suicide right there.”

“Yes, it does, but the date doesn't corroborate the timing. Looks like she had a heart attack. Then she hung herself afterward.”

“So she was murdered?”

“You wanted to see the report. It says cardiac arrest. But ultimately, cardiac arrest is what kills everyone. Catch a bullet in the head, get hit by a car, eat some poison. The heart tends to stop.”

“Eat some poison?”

“Just an example, Crowe. It's not my field. If I were you, I'd check and see if she had a history of heart problems.”

“You said it wasn't your field.”

“It's not.” The Spider hit a key and a laser printer whirred in the darkness somewhere.

“I don't have much on the kid. I could give you the subscription list for his paper route.”

Theo realized that he had gotten all he was going to get on Bess Leander. “I have that. How about giving me any known baby-rapers in the area?”

“That's easy.” The Spider's fingers danced over the keyboard. “You think the kid was snatched?”

“I don't know shit,” Theo said.

The Spider said, “No known pedophiles in Pine Cove. You want the whole county?”

“Why not?”

The laser printer whirred and the Spider pointed through the dark at the noise. “Everything you want is back there. That's all I can do for you.”

“Thanks, Nailgun, I appreciate it.” Theo felt a chronic case of the creeps going up his spine. He took a step into the dark and found the papers sitting in the tray of the laser printer. Then he stepped to the door. “You wanna buzz me out?”

The Spider swiveled in his chair and looked at Theo for the first time. Theo could see his piggy eyes shining out of deep craters.

“You still live in that cabin by the Beer Bar Ranch?”

“Yep,” Theo said. “Eight years now.”

“Never been on the ranch, though, have you?”

“No.” Theo cringed. Could the Spider know about Sheriff Burton's hold over him?

“Good,” the Spider said. “Stay out of there. And Theo?”

“Yeah?”

“Sheriff Burton has been checking with me on everything that comes out of Pine Cove. After the Leander death and the truck blowing up, he got very jumpy. If you decide to pursue the Leander thing, stay low-key.”

Theo was amazed. The Spider had actually volunteered information. “Why?” was all he could say.

“I like the herb you bring me.” The Spider patted his shirt pocket.

Theo smiled. “You won't tell Burton you gave me the autopsy report?”

“Why would I?” said the Spider.

“Take care,” Theo said. The Spider turned back to his screens and buzzed the door.

Molly

Molly wasn't so sure that life as Pine Cove's Crazy Lady wasn't harder than being a Warrior Babe of the Outland. Things were pretty clear for a Warrior Babe: you ran around half-naked looking for food and fuel and occasionally kicked the snot out of some mutants. There was no subterfuge or rumor. You didn't have to guess whether or not the Sand Pirates approved of your behavior. If they approved, they staked you out and tortured you. If they didn't they called you a bitch, then they staked you out and tortured you. They might release starving radioactive cockroaches on you or burn you with hot pokers, they might even gang-rape you (in foreign-release directors'cuts only), but you always knew where you stood with Sand Pirates. And they never tittered. Molly had had all the tittering she could handle for the day. At the pharmacy, they had tittered.

Four elderly women worked the counter at Pine Cove Drug and Gift, while above them, behind his glass window, Winston Krauss, the dolphin-molesting pharmacist, lorded over them like a rooster over a barnyard full of hens. It didn't seem to matter to Winston that his four hens couldn't make change or answer the simplest question, nor that they would retreat to the back room when anyone younger than thirty entered the pharmacy, lest they have to sell something embarrassing like condoms. What mattered to Winston was that his hens worked for minimum wage and treated him like a god. He was behind glass; tittering didn't bother him.