The Mountains Bow Down (47 page)

“You got it,” Jack said. “Where do you want to meet up?”

“My cabin.”

“Harmon, I've waited—”

“Keep waiting. The purser gave me a list of places Ramazan and Serif were working. I checked for the name Sparks, not Butz.”

Having woken from his drunken sleep, Milo struggled to focus on the glass in front of him. Arms braced against the Sky Bar's neon rail, he stared down as the neon glow washed over his famous face, a blue color resembling the skin on his dead wife.

From where I stood by the staff elevator, I could see the new director too. He was wagging his head eagerly, listening to Sandy Sparks. The producer, however, kept his sharp eyes trained on his young wife. Even from across the room, it was difficult to miss Larrah Sparks.

Blond hair piled high on her head, she spun on the dance floor under the black lights, boogie-oogy-oogying until she just couldn't boogie no more. Bare arms lifted—the better for admiration—she shook her backside against a partner who moved in the shadows behind her. What I could see of him stepped back and forth, side to side, like somebody kicking his own ankles. The muscle-bound attempt to stay on the beat. It was too dark to see his forehead, but I could guess: Vinnie.

I walked from the service elevator to the palm reading table. The music sounded muffled in my ears, and the room looked like a cave warmed by neon and black-light fires. Jessie the bartender had covered the windows with the storm shutters, and at the black velvet table, Aunt Charlotte sat with MJ, the piano player. I ducked my head, trying to avoid being seen as I pulled up a chair.

“How's the party?” I asked.

My aunt shook her head. “I'm too old for this crowd.”

“And I have the spirit of Marilyn Monroe,” MJ said. “That's why I'm an addict. And I'm going to die young.”

I repressed a groan. “Claire?”

MJ nodded.

Suppressing an eye-roll, I looked around. “Where is she?”

My aunt sat up, gazing around the dark bar. “She was just here.” Her voice dropped confidentially. “She might be in the bathroom, she had a bit too much to drink.”

“I thought she was an alcoholic,” I said. “She told the bartender she can't drink and give readings.”

“She can't. She was just drinking iced tea but she got loopy. Then woozy.” Pushing back her chair, my aunt stood up. Her silk tunic was creased across the lap, telling me she'd sat for most of the party. “I'll go check the restroom.”

She left and MJ looked down, studying her hands. The black velvet washed over the table and seemed to blend with her flowing dress, the bohemian waves of dark hair.

“MJ, who ran the pot operation in San Jose?”

She lifted her eyes. They were such soft intuitive eyes. And they were so full of fear. “I told you, I don't smoke anymore. Claire was just telling me why I
was
an addict. I'm clean, honest.”

“I believe you. But you went to prison for distribution.”

She began picking at her palm.

“You're not the business type.”

“I set that whole thing up.”

“You're an artist,” I said calmly. “You probably can't even balance a checkbook, if you even keep a checkbook. Somebody had to be the bank on that operation. Somebody took care of the books. Who was it?”

She turned. The boogie song had ended, the dancers were wandering off the floor, leaving the purple orb of the black lights. Larrah Sparks was fanning her face and following her—like an oversize puppy—was the man Milo tried to choke. The burly extra.

“Tell me, MJ.” I tried to control my voice, but time was running out.

“I need this job.” She fumbled with the plastic chair, trying to push it back. “It's all I've got.”

“It was Sparks, wasn't it?” I grabbed her wrist before she could run away. “He ran it?”

She yanked her arm away, fleeing. Her gossamer black dress floated behind her as she ran to a keyboard, set up along the wall by the dance floor. She sat down awkwardly. She even tried to smile.

Bird Girl suddenly saw me. She was flapping across the room, right behind Aunt Charlotte, whose distance was shorter.

“I can't find Claire,” she said.

“Charlotte, this is a private party,” Bird Girl said. “Mr. Sparks has been more than generous with you. He's given you and your family very comfortable—”

“Comfortable?” My aunt guffawed.

Bird Girl blinked.

“After this week, I'm going to need months of therapy,” my aunt said.

Bird Girl opened her mouth.

But I stood up, cutting her off.

“Don't worry,” I said. “I was just leaving.”

Chapter Forty-one

T
he Parrotheads next door sang along with Jimmy Buffett, insisting that when Monday comes everything will be all right. I wanted to believe them, fishing in my pocket for my keycard, but I could also hear Claire on the other side of the door. Playing that bizarro music. Even in my cottony ears her loud voice grated. She was talking to the crystals. Or maybe the plants.

“Do you love me?” she asked. “Because I
looooove
you.”

Keycard poised, I felt an urge to run the other way. But Claire had the bracelet and the pink stone. And I needed to know if anybody had asked about them.

I slid the card into the slot, taking a deep breath.

Then I heard a crash, followed by the sound of Claire grunting. Holding the door handle, bracing myself, I prayed the woman was dressed. But just to be safe, I knocked on the door and waited, giving her time.

But before I could open it, the door swung. I fell into the room. The door slammed shut. A hand clamped over my mouth. An arm wrapped around my neck.

I punched, whipping my elbows back. It felt like I was hitting granite.

He breathed into my ear. “One word and I'll kill you both.”

Claire was picking herself off the floor. She staggered toward me, the yellow sari torn down the front. Her glazed eyes seemed aqueous, like shining opals.

“Raleigh . . .” She bumped into the desk and bounced off it like a Nerf ball. “My friend. You're my friend.”

Drunk. Blind blotto drunk. On her forehead the pink stone hung like a scab, the skin bleeding from where he'd tried to tear it off. I glanced at her right wrist. Thin sharp lines traced her pale skin. No bracelet remained.

His arm pulled tighter. And I knew what I'd done: I'd made her a target.

Vinnie's target.

“Where are the stones?” he whispered.

His hand over my mouth tasted bitter, like rust.

When I didn't respond, he pulled tighter. My eyes bulged as I picked up my right foot and came down with full force, grinding my heel into his foot. He faltered with pain and I spun, twisting my body away. But his grip tightened. I grabbed his forearm, scratching, pulling at the muscles that rippled under my fingers, flexing like a boa constrictor.

“I know you took them from the box,” he said. “What did you do with them?”

I was choking. His fingers were blocking my nose too.

Claire tipped forward. “Whaatt?”

I tried kicking again but he lifted his arm, dangling me like a rag doll.

“What are you two doing?” Claire asked.

I twisted my waist, aiming a knee for his crotch.

“Hey, my turn!” Claire cried.

He shifted side to side as I kicked. Laughter in my ear. “It won't work,” he whispered. “You're mine now.”

“I get a turn!” Claire, sounding petulant, the spoiled child.

I was squinting, trying to press back the force pushing at my eyes. My head was going to explode. When he leaned back, lifting me higher, my feet came off the floor, treading thin air.

“I want to swing!” Claire said. “Let me swing! Swing, swing—”

Swing
.

Taking his forearm like a branch, I swung my legs back and forward. Again and again, swinging until my right foot connected with Claire. I kicked her, hard. She stumbled back, hit the bed, and gazed down at her leg, where my foot struck. I started swinging again, ready for another kick, when Vinnie started backing up. Still holding me off the ground, he kept me from braking his path through the adjoining door. At the last second, I kicked out both of my feet, hooking my toes on the door frame. He tugged. My neck cracked and popped. Legs trembling, my shins burned. I closed my eyes, trying to breathe.

“You kicked me!”

The yellow sari appeared at my feet.

“Why'd you kick me?” she demanded.

I closed my eyes and kicked her again. I felt my shoe connecting right before Vinnie yanked, pulling me off the frame.

He dragged me into my aunt's cabin and moved the hand until it covered my nose.

“Tell me where you put them. Or I swear I'll kill you.”

Far away I heard Claire, crying. “You hurt meeeee!” And the Parrotheads next door sang about getting drunk. My fingers tingled, losing circulation. They slipped off his arm, unable to hold on. I closed my eyes again. Praying. One gulp of air.
Please
. One breath.

The slap on my face opened my eyes.

Claire didn't disappoint. In a rage, she hit wildly, striking at my face but connecting with Vinnie's arm too. I felt the ground under my feet. Took a breath. Took another punch from Claire's windmilling arms. I leaned forward, taking Vinnie down with me. Close enough now that Claire could strike his face. The crazy slaps flew, fast and unpredictable. He couldn't control us both. Forced to the choice, he kept the arm around my neck. But his hand left my mouth completely. I gasped, opening wide. Claire kept erupting. Numbed by alcohol and anger, she propelled herself into us. When he lunged for her, I twisted sideways.

I spun out from under his arm.

They tumbled to the floor. Claire was snarling like a wild dog.

Turning away, I slapped my hands on the bureau, searching. My fingers didn't feel the drawer as I pulled it out. And my thumbs felt just as detached sliding over the latches on the titanium case. Sliding again, until the lid popped up. Shoving everything away, I grabbed the rock hammer.

The steel claw pointed forward as I whirled around. Claire was pinned to the floor but still fighting, a drunken dervish. Sensing me, Vinnie turned his head. He saw the raised hammer. Under that brow the eyes grew large and I swung, so certain of connecting that I thought it was the force of my blow that toppled me.

I lay on the floor, stunned. The hammer was still in my right hand. But my left leg, it ached.

His thick fingers clamped down around my wrist, squeezing until my hand shook. I couldn't move my leg and in horror, I watched my fingers spasm open. The hammer clunked to the floor.

A heavy leaden sound. Somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered if anybody could hear it.

Anybody
.

Please
.

Claire whimpered on the floor, crying and holding her arms to her body. Vinnie picked me up and flung me like a toy, throwing me on my aunt's bed facedown. He pressed on the back of my head, pushing my face into the pillow. I tried to breathe, and heard Jimmy Buffett describing a dying little town, and when Vinnie's full weight fell on me, covering my entire back, my lungs suddenly compressed, pushing out all the air. My mind begged. One breath. One breath. But the pillowcase had filled my mouth and fireworks exploded across my eyelids. I sent up another one-word prayer, desperate. Panicked. Fading with the Parrothead music until it was only the blood in my ears, washing like the sound of the sea. His enormous frame pressed down, making sure, making sure no air ever came back. I felt his mouth beside my ear. He was breathing as if to say good-bye. My body floated off the bed, rising weightless as the fireworks faded and my lungs no longer strained, and the last thought I had was this:
Take care of her
.

It felt like falling asleep. I released all my fear, letting go, breathing again.

“I just wanted to swing.”

I held still. Then opened my eyes.

“If you'd just let me swing.”

The lead weight on my back was motionless. He was no longer pressing. But he still breathed in my ear.

No, not breathing.

He was snoring.

I lifted my head, turned. Vinnie's head slid across my back. His heavy arm dangled on my shoulder. The thick fingers were bloody. Bitten.

“I like to swing.” Claire sounded like a girl. A sad child. “That's all I wanted. To swing. But you didn't let me be part of the game.”

I pushed with my arms, and he slid farther off. I glanced over my shoulder.

She stood over the bed. In her right hand the rock hammer faced the wrong way. The claw pointed toward her.

Torquing the rest of my body, I shrugged Vinnie off. He slid to the right, slamming into the wall.

The Parrotheads banged back. “You shut up!” somebody yelled.

I heard laughter over the music.

Pulling my legs out from under him, my arms felt strange. The way they do when they've fallen asleep but are coming back. My face was hot with fever. Slowly, with both hands extended, I reached out. Her vapid eyes were still bright. Still drunk. Blind drunk. Blackout drunk.