China Lake (21 page)

I drove back to the hotel to clean up. The stings throbbed. Everything agitated them—walking, blinking, even the ticking of the wall clocks at the front desk, telling me it was nighttime in New Delhi. Grimacing, I got halfway across the lobby before I saw Jesse sitting there, waiting for me.

‘‘Hey, sugar.’’ Arms wide.

He had on worn jeans and a yellow Gaucho Swimming T-shirt. His laptop computer was open on a table, the ferret trial being ever with him.

Anticipating his first question, I said, ‘‘Luke’s okay.’’

‘‘God.’’ He exhaled. ‘‘I had a long drive waiting to hear that.’’ He brushed my hair off my face with his fingertips. ‘‘Shit, what’s wrong with your eye?’’

The desk clerk was gawking. I said, ‘‘In my room.’’ Down the hall, I closed the door, tossed him the antihistamine ointment, and started stripping off my clothes. ‘‘Rub it on me, all over.’’

‘‘Hell.’’ He stared. ‘‘You’ve been playing with the Remnant again.’’

‘‘Every last inch, Jesse. Before I start gnawing on myself.’’

He squeezed the ointment onto his fingers and started rubbing.

I said, ‘‘Brian’s been arrested.’’

His fingers stopped. His eyebrows rose. ‘‘On what evidence?’’

‘‘Bullshit evidence. He argued with Peter Wyoming. He left the crime scene because he thought Luke was in danger. He has a handgun. It’s all speculation.’’

‘‘But enough for a warrant?’’

‘‘Welcome to the high desert, where the brain cells are thinner.’’

He started rubbing again. ‘‘Brian is asserting his innocence?’’

He backed off. ‘‘You all right?’’

‘‘No.’’

He stopped rubbing, with his hand on my hip, and looked at me with electric blue eyes. He swung over onto the bed and drew me down into his arms. I laid my head on his shoulder.

‘‘Five minutes,’’ I said. ‘‘Just give me five minutes. Don’t say anything.’’

The jail adjoined the police station at the Civic Center complex. Jesse and I signed in before going to the visitors’ room.

He said, ‘‘Why are the cops looking at me like that?’’

‘‘You’re the newest exhibit in the Delaney Family Traveling Zoo. Ignore it.’’

The visitors’ room was painted canned-tuna beige. This being a small-town jail, the Plexiglas divider between prisoners and visitors was only seven feet high, so people could talk without phones. Grime was accumulating along every surface, the smut of despair building up into a greasy layer that dulled the room. When the jailer ushered Brian in, my stomach cramped. His shoulders were slumped, his black eyes dull. In the bright orange jail coveralls, he looked diminished, an ember of himself.

He sat down. He tipped his head, said, ‘‘Jesse.’’

‘‘Brian.’’

He asked about my eye, and I told him it was a wasp sting. He said, ‘‘You should be thinking of heading out.’’

‘‘I wanted to see you first.’’

‘‘How’s Luke?’’

Ineptly, I tried controlling my face. ‘‘He’s worried about you.’’

‘‘Is he someplace safe? Right now?’’

‘‘He’s with Abbie and Wally Hankins.’’

‘‘When are Mom and Dad flying back?’’

‘‘I haven’t gotten through to them yet.’’

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘They’re somewhere in the South China Sea. Give me time.’’

He ran his hands through his hair. ‘‘You can’t stay in China Lake.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘They can stay at my place until your parents get back. The Remnant doesn’t know where I live.’’

They looked at each other like dogs about to bark. Brian said, ‘‘Yeah. Okay.’’

I said, ‘‘I’ve retained a criminal lawyer. He’ll be here later this afternoon.’’

‘‘Somebody local?’’

Jesse said, ‘‘From Bakersfield, a real pro, Jerry Sonnenfeld. He has fifteen years’ experience trying capital cases.’’

Capital cases
. Brian shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

‘‘He knows his shit. Listen to what he says,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘Have you given a statement to the police?’’ Brian shook his head. ‘‘Good. Don’t.’’

‘‘They wanted to know about my automatic,’’ Brian said. ‘‘What I did with it. But I didn’t do anything with it—it was on the shelf in my closet.’’

‘‘Not anymore. You can lay money on it.’’

Brian’s face was tightening. ‘‘They found the brass in the living room. A Winchester nine-millimeter cartridge, NATO spec. It’s the ammunition I use. Someone’s figured out how to hose me, royally, right up the ass.’’

His skin had gone pale. He took a long time getting the next words out. ‘‘Tabitha knows I always keep my weapon in the closet. If it’s gone . . .’’

I wanted to shake him. Despite everything she still had a grip on him. But I knew what he wanted to hear. ‘‘I can’t believe she had anything to do with murdering Pastor Pete.’’

That soothed him, like putting a Band-Aid on a sucking chest wound. We talked for a while longer, about meeting with his lawyer, about arraignment on the murder charge, and about the fact that he wouldn’t be granted bail. When he heard that, the light in his eyes withered like ashes at the burned end of a cigarette.

‘‘This place is bad,’’ he said. ‘‘I mean smeared-shit-on -the-walls, drunks-hallucinating, don’t-bend-over-in-the -showers bad. And while I’m in here, the Remnant’s out there, on the loose—’’ He broke off. ‘‘I have to get out of here, Evan.’’

‘‘I’m working on it.’’

‘‘I did not do this.’’

‘‘I know you didn’t.’’

He searched my countenance, looking for doubts. I did what Luke would do: I drew an X on my chest. Then I pressed my hand against the Plexiglas. After a second, he placed his hand on the other side, across from mine.

‘‘I’ll get you out,’’ I said.

Cross my heart and hope to die.

It was three o’clock by the time we picked up Luke. Jesse was driving, as his car was not a billboard for obscenities. Clapton was on the stereo,
Crossroads
. I was staring out the window, downbeat. The relentless sunshine emphasized the bleached, hardscrabble isolation of this place. Jesse, however, waved at the horizon, saying, ‘‘This landscape is astonishing. My God, that’s Mount Whitney, and it must be a hundred miles away. It’s beautiful here. So unconstrained.’’

I grunted. He asked if I disagreed, and I said, ‘‘To get me back here they had to bring me in under arrest.’’

He changed the subject. ‘‘I started to tell you on the phone yesterday about this family who used to belong to the Remnant. A doctor at the rehab center knows them. Their daughter has cerebral palsy.’’ He made a face. ‘‘Pastor Pete apparently expressed his disgust about ‘weaklings’ to others besides me. I spoke to the husband, and he said they’d be willing to talk about the church.’’

I thanked him.

‘‘And that reporter called me looking for you. Sally Shimada.’’ I groaned. I didn’t want to speak to the press. He said, ‘‘She wanted to talk to you about Dr. Neil Jorgensen.’’

I hadn’t been thinking about the plastic surgeon’s death, but my interest was immediately piqued again. ‘‘What did she say?’’

‘‘Just that she really wants you to call her.’’ He imitated her peppy voice. ‘‘Really, really,
really
.’’

The Hankinses’ front door was open to the fresh air, and when I knocked Wally boomed, ‘‘Enter!’’ Jesse popped a wheelie up the step. Inside we found Wally on the floor, kneeling over a Lionel train set. He looked at Jesse, surprised, but quickly smiled his Saint Bernard smile and came over to shake hands.

I hated this moment. The looks, the unspoken questions, the uneasiness able-bodied people often manifested around a wheelchair—it always balked me. Jesse usually rolled over it, like jumping curbs, but I worried about it wearing on him.

Wally, however, was affable, and Abbie could not have beaten around the bush if she’d had a map. She gave Jesse a frank look over her glasses. ‘‘Well. There are certainly a few things Evan didn’t tell me about you. Was it a car wreck?’’

‘‘Hit and run.’’

‘‘Bummer.’’ She looked at me. ‘‘That’ll teach me not to complain about my knee surgery anymore. And jeez, look at you; let’s put a bag of frozen peas on that eye.’’

In the kitchen I said, ‘‘How’s Luke?’’

‘‘He’s been great. Quiet, but no probs. He’s out back with Travis and Dulcie.’’

Through the kitchen window, the kids raced in and out of view. Luke was running behind a Little Tikes push-car, propelling it around the lawn. Dulcie sat at the wheel, steering erratically. Travis was spreadeagled on the car’s roof, shrieking and sliding from side to side.

‘‘They’re fine,’’ Abbie said. She handed me the peas. ‘‘But before they come in, what’s going to happen with Luke’s mother? Will she take him, since Brian’s in jail?’’

I shook my head. ‘‘Brian has sole custody, and he’s made me Luke’s guardian. Tabitha can’t even visit him without going to court. And if she tries to get custody, she’ll face the fight of her life.’’

‘‘Good.’’

Jesse had found the high school yearbook on the table. Abruptly he snorted, held it up, and pointed to my class photo. Braces, bad hair, and a distressing attempt at eye makeup.

I said, ‘‘I’d like to see one of you, back when you were learning to shave.’’

Then I had a thought. I asked him to look up Antley, the name of the woman who owned Angels’ Landing. He flipped through the index and shook his head.

I thought some more. ‘‘Try Hopp.’’

There it was, page one sixteen. I said, ‘‘Casey Hopp. Know the name?’’

Abbie shook her head. The photo showed a group of students slouching against a chain-link fence, with the caption:
Detention Club
. Casey Hopp was at the edge of the group, wearing a grungy flannel shirt, a beanie pulled low, and a glare.

Abbie said, ‘‘Is that a girl or a boy?’’

I couldn’t tell. But I was going to find out.

The back door banged open and the kids came in, out of breath. Dulcie and Travis immediately gave Jesse the full stare. Luke came over to him, an inscrutable worldliness limning his little face, one hand raised in greeting like a movie-version Sioux.

Jesse said, ‘‘Hey, little dude. How’s it going?’’

‘‘My dad’s in jail.’’

‘‘That sucks.’’ Mr. Matter-of-fact.

Dulcie tugged on Abbie’s shirt. ‘‘I thought you weren’t allowed to say
suck
.’’

Abbie rubbed her shoulder. ‘‘Sometimes you just can’t say it enough.’’

We stayed that night in China Lake, simply too tired to drive. In the morning I spoke to Brian. He sounded more dejected than before. The night in jail had sapped his spirit. It was sinking in: There wasn’t going to be a quick fix.

Playing the good citizen, I informed Detective McCracken that I was leaving town. He was displeased, but didn’t stop me. I asked him how long it would be before I could get access to Brian’s house, and to my surprise, he said, ‘‘Anytime. The techs finished with it yesterday. We pulled down the tape.’’

Steeling myself, I decided to get in and out quickly, just retrieve my gear and pack a few things for Luke. But after standing outside for five minutes I couldn’t bring myself to open the door. Thinking I might ease into the idea of going inside, I walked around to the backyard. The garbage can was gone, the patio a mess. I didn’t approach the spot where the fire had been. Instead I peered through the sliding glass door at the dishevelment inside—the trashed furniture, scripture-scrawled walls, tracks of firefighters’ boots. It looked debauched.

‘‘Evan?’’

I jumped.

Marc Dupree walked onto the patio. ‘‘I just came from seeing Brian. He told me I might find you here.’’

He was completely put together: voice creamy, aviators’ wings shining on his shirt, trousers creased sharply enough to slice a cake. The khaki uniform complemented his brown skin. His sunglasses reflected the keen morning light.

‘‘I wanted to make sure you know,’’ he said, ‘‘everybody in the squadron is in Brian’s corner one hundred percent. This is totally bogus.’’

‘‘Glad to hear you say that.’’ There was something else. I said, ‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘It’s just . . . shoot. There’s no delicate way to put this.’’

‘‘Then speak frankly, Marc.’’

‘‘Well . . .’’ He glanced off at the mountains. ‘‘You know that Brian thought Peter Wyoming was sleeping with Tabitha.’’

My head started pounding. ‘‘No, I didn’t know that.’’

‘‘All this time he’s been wondering who it was, and when he finally gets a chance to confront him, the bastard gets shot in his house.’’

My heart sank. ‘‘You think he had a helmet fire.’’

He put up a hand. ‘‘I’m not saying Brian did the killing. I’m saying he melted down when he found the body, which is why he left the scene.’’

A love triangle. This was awful. This was motive. I pinched the bridge of my nose. ‘‘You didn’t tell this to the police. Say you didn’t.’’

‘‘Of course not. I’m telling you so you’ll understand why he acted out of character. He feels enormously guilty about leaving you to find the body.’’

With his eyes hidden behind the aviator shades, all I saw when I looked at him was my warped reflection. Something wasn’t right here. His posture, his rectitude, didn’t jibe with the way his wide mouth pinched after he spoke.

It hit me: He should have been Brian’s alibi.

‘‘Marc, you told the cops that Brian was at your house Friday evening, that he left for only a few minutes. Didn’t you?’’

The expression on his face didn’t change. ‘‘I told them I had total confidence that he was innocent.’’

‘‘That’s not the same thing.’’

‘‘Brian did not commit this murder. Period. I’m offering you my word on this.’’

‘‘So you didn’t alibi him.’’ My head was really hammering. ‘‘Why in hell not?’’

‘‘I can’t, at this moment in time.’’

Like a dust devil, suspicion began spinning in me, dragging up memories from China Lake—of the stone-faced lying that went with military secrecy, of the dispassionate smoothness with which a uniform could invest a liar.