The Night Visitor (3 page)

“I do think Anya would be proud of TOV and the work we do. But she would totally know that keeping her as the face of Langtry was a cagey PR move on my part that helped launch my company into the big time. No one sees Anya’s photo without remembering her murder. I can almost hear her, ‘So, you’re still trading on my image, huh, sis?’ ” Rory huffed out a laugh and again looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Maybe the past is seeking revenge on me.”

Tom turned her from the mirror to face him, breaking her soul
-
piercing gaze at herself. “What’s past is past. It’s all about you and me now.”

“You sweet man.” She reached to touch his cheek.

He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Why don’t you take a few minutes to lie down and close your eyes? Although I don’t know how you’d lie down with that hair.”

“Put a rolled pillow under my neck. I’m not Evelyn Langtry Tate’s daughter for nothing. But I’m supposed to be downstairs, helping my mom greet the guests.”

“I’ll handle your mother.”

She blinked with surprise and joked, “You
are
being bold today.”

“You’ve got your sense of humor back. You must be feeling better. Take a little rest and I’ll see you downstairs.” He gave her a peck on the cheek, knowing not to risk smearing her makeup, and closed the door when he left.

Rory lay down on a couch, carefully arranging her gown. She fitted a throw pillow beneath her neck to avoid crushing her hairdo. Closing her eyes felt good, but the image of silvery doves circling in moonlight soon flooded her mind. She at first fought it but then surrendered, feeling as if she were flying among those beating wings and musky feathers, circling, swirling more tightly. She saw a pool of blood in moonlight. A gunshot. Darkness.

Her eyes flew open and she bolted up, gasping, feeling as if she were dying. She quickly left the room, afraid to be alone.

6

Five years after the murder of Anya Langtry, the public was still fascinated with the lurid tale of the supermodel allegedly shot to death with her own gun by Junior Lara, the artist fiancé of Anya’s sister, socialite Aurora Langtry. Rory and Anya were fraternal twins—one blonde, one brunette; one dawn, one dusk—daughters of actress Evelyn Langtry and stepdaughters of old
-
money Richard Alvin Tate III. The story, if not the controversy, would have concluded the night of the shootings if Anya had carried a higher caliber weapon in her purse. Then the bullet that Junior had allegedly fired into his head behind his right ear after having slaughtered Anya would have killed him. Instead, the round from Anya’s Smith and Wesson snub-nosed .22 had ripped up only enough of Junior’s brain to land him in what the media inaccurately called an extended coma.

Saying Junior was in a coma only further romanticized the tragedy. “Coma” brought to mind a Sleeping Beauty scenario, with Beauty here the strapping, sexy, and talented Junior Lara, who needed only a kiss from his princess or perhaps an angel to cause him to open his eyes, arise from his bed, and stride back into his brilliant life.

But Junior wasn’t in a coma. He’d awakened from the coma three weeks after his injury, awakened as much as he ever would. The accurate medical term for his condition was “persistent vegetative state,” meaning that Junior was conscious but showed no meaningful responses to stimuli, such as following commands or conversing intelligibly. He was no longer strapping or sexy. He would never return to his former life or to anything that remotely resembled truly living.

Junior was on his back, wearing a well-laundered cotton gown and covered in a light blanket. He had once stood six feet tall. Now his atrophied legs were bent toward his chest and his arms were crooked toward his shoulders, the muscles having become so short that he could no longer straighten his limbs. His clawlike fingers held rubber bars to prevent his nails from cutting his palms. His mouth was open, gaping like a baby bird’s, and his lips stretched across teeth that appeared huge in proportion to his face. His dark brown eyes bulged from his emaciated skull. He seemed to consist of skin, bone, and sinew. His chin sported a neat goatee, trimmed daily by his mother. His hair was sheared close to his scalp, cut every two weeks by his mother in the same style she’d cut it for him when he was a boy. The long scar from the surgery for the gunshot wound was clearly visible, straight and white, across the right side of his head.

The respirator, which was attached to a breathing tube inserted into the tracheostomy in Junior’s neck, made an even, calming sound as it inflated and deflated his lungs. A monitor clipped to his index finger reported his blood pressure and heartbeat on a screen. A plastic sack of creamy liquid suspended from an IV pole drained into a feeding tube inserted into his stomach, hidden by the bedclothes. Also hidden was a catheter.

It was open to interpretation whether Junior was aware that his brother was standing beside his bed. Danny had no doubts about Junior’s level of awareness.

Hi, bro.
Danny pulled a plastic chair to the side of the bed. He sat and held one of Junior’s hands with the rubber bar between both his hands.

Junior turned his head, and his eyes widened as they seemed to focus on Danny. The next second, Junior rolled his head on the pillow, his eyes again roaming, taking in the surroundings of where he’d lived for years with the jumbled fascination of an infant. Junior’s head circled and his eyes again met Danny’s.

I’m not gonna get emotional on you or anything, Junior, and I’m not sure how to say this so you’ll understand. But being with you like this has been the best experience of my life.
Danny closed his eyes and forced the message into his heart, beyond the realm of words. That’s where he and Junior communicated.

After seeming to stare intently at Danny, his dark eyes direct and fierce, Junior’s gaze again traveled the room and his mouth jawed the air.

Danny rubbed Junior’s head with one of his hands.
You were always there for me, Junior. Remember that time we were walking home from the corner store and I hurt my ankle? I was pretty little. You always bought us a bottle of orange Crush and a bag of pepitas to share. I was walking on the curb and I slipped off and twisted my ankle. You carried me all the way home. Now it’s my turn to carry you, Junior. It’s been an honor to share this journey with you. To get justice for you and to clear your name.

Danny rose and leaned over to kiss Junior’s forehead. He pulled out the rolled magazine from where it jutted from his jacket pocket. He held the curled pages open and showed the cover to Junior. It was
People
magazine’s annual 50 Most Beautiful People issue.

Junior turned his eyes to the magazine, his face contorting as if with fear. Just as his focus again skirted elsewhere, Danny opened the magazine to the page that had its corner folded down. On it was Rory Langtry, wearing a skimpy black dress and a come-hither look.

Junior took it in with the same expression of bewilderment and vexation he displayed during the nanosecond of attention he gave anything. His eyes again shifted away.

Danny turned the magazine to look at it himself.
Her life has only gotten better. She put you here and went on her merry way because her rich family protects her.

“Hey, hot stuff. You look nice, Danny. You going out someplace?” An African American nurse with Corliss on her nametag stuck her head into the room. She was middle-aged, not tall, and she had a solid build and a big smile.

Danny looked up at her. “Yeah, to a party.”

“With friends?”

“They’re not my friends, but I’m gonna have the time of my life.”

“Oh…All right. As long as you have fun. I’ll be in to suction in a few minutes.”

“I’m leaving soon. Maybe you could wait.”

“Sure. No problem.”

After she’d left, Danny folded back the
People
to Rory’s photograph and tucked the magazine under Junior’s pillow. He reached into his jacket and took an envelope from an inside pocket. From it, he pulled out a rose
-
hued ticket to the La Vie en Rose Ball for The Other Victims. He held it in front of Junior’s face.

Junior took it in with his usual fleeting attention.

Danny looked at the ticket, then returned it to its envelope and put the envelope back into his pocket. He glanced into the hallway. It was quiet. The only other person around was Junior’s roommate, a minimally conscious, elderly man who was lying on his back in bed with his eyes open.

Danny stood and pulled the tail of his shirt from the front of his slacks. Tucked into his waistband was a .38 revolver. He pulled it out and held it up for Junior.

Junior’s eyes widened as he took in this object with no greater or lesser attention than he had given anything else Danny had presented.

Danny turned the gun this way and that, showing Junior all its angles, before slipping it back into his waistband and tucking in his shirt over it. He clasped Junior’s face between his hands and kissed his brother’s cheeks and forehead. Tears welled in Danny’s eyes and dropped onto Junior’s blanket.

Danny abruptly left the room, not looking back.

In the corridor he met Corliss, who was carrying the tubing and sterile catheters to suction the numerous tracheostomies in the unit. He grabbed her and kissed her hard on the mouth. She struggled to free herself, dropping the packages, but he held fast.

He stopped kissing her but still held her face and looked at her hard. “Thanks, Corliss. Take care of him.”

He continued down the corridor and left the unit.

Corliss touched her lips, reeling as she gaped after him.

7

“Hello. Welcome. So nice to see you. Thanks for supporting The Other Victims. See you on the dance floor. Hello. Nice to meet you. Welcome to my home. Thank you. This? Vintage Valentino. I last wore it when I presented the Academy Award for Best Screenplay in ’86. The necklace is a Tate family heirloom. Aren’t you sweet? See you on the dance floor.”

Evelyn Langtry Tate sneaked a glance at her watch and erased her frown before blowing a kiss to a silver-haired man farther down the receiving line. He jokingly snatched it from the air and planted it on his cheek.

“Dot and Dr. Hal,” she said to the couple next in line. They air-kissed and hugged. “Thanks so much for coming.”

“Evelyn, you’re ageless. What’s your secret?”

“Aren’t you sweet? Good clean living. Diet and exercise.” Evelyn winked. “And Botox.”

They all laughed.

“Let’s have a picture.”

A woman offered to take the photo. Dot, Hal, and Evelyn linked arms. Evelyn ran her fingertips across her flame-red hair, extended her neck, tilted her head to the left, and slid her green eyes to the right. The flash went off.

“See you on the dance floor.”

Rory took her place at her mother’s side.

“Where have you…” Evelyn cast a gimlet eye at her daughter. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Hi. Hello. Welcome. Thanks for coming. Have a good time.”

“Welcome to my home.” Under her breath, Evelyn said to Rory, “You don’t look like nothing’s wrong. You’re pale.”

“Just worn out. Welcome. Have fun.”

“Evelyn, only for you would I make the trek from Beverly Hills to Pasadena.”

“Rowland, darling.” It was the man she’d blown the kiss to.

“How’s my favorite redhead?”

“Just spectacular. Have you met my daughter, Rory? This is Rowland Fink, head of Supreme Pictures.”

“Rory, my pleasure.”

“Mr. Fink, I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I bet not as much as I’ve heard about you lately. They’re calling you this year’s It Girl.”

“How embarrassing. My friends won’t let me live it down.”

“Everyone wants to know what Rory Langtry’s wearing, where she’s going, what she’s saying. That’s a lot of power, young lady.”

Rory pressed her fingertips against his arm. “I’m enjoying my fifteen minutes, and I’ll be glad when they’re over.”

“Your mother and I go way back,” Rowland said. “All those cheapie B movies she did for me are now cult classics. Who knew? I keep trying to get her to do another picture, but she claims she’s retired.”

“My mother is so busy, but”—Rory leaned to speak into his ear—“flattery can take you a long way.”

“Don’t I know, my dear? Don’t I know?”

Rory forced a smile while icy fingers trailed down her back. She shivered in her gown. “Thanks so much for coming.”

“Hello. Welcome. Hi. See you on the dance floor.” Evelyn worked the crowd while shooting glances at Rory.

Rory tried to stay calm despite the crazy visions in her head—silvery doves flying in moonlight, circling a gigantic gun, their feathers blood-splattered.

She kept going. “Thanks for supporting TOV. Welcome.”

She air-kissed with the next couple, a young woman and man who were both painfully thin. The woman’s tattooed upper body was displayed beneath her revealing evening gown. “Jenna and Ian. So nice to see you. Love your new album. I downloaded it the minute it came out.”

“Thank you,” Jenna said. “Who did your fabulous dress?”

“Li Cho. She’s a new L.A. designer. Someone to watch. Thanks for coming.”

Rory jumped when Tom slipped behind her and slid his arms around her waist. “You scared me.”

“I’m delighted that my touch excites you so, darling. How are you feeling?”

“Much better.” She inclined her head in the direction of the back garden. “Listen. The band’s playing that old song you like.”

Tom turned his head toward the rear of the house. “I can’t make it out. I can barely hear the music.”

“Of course you can hear it. Wait. He’s singing. ‘This can’t be love because I feel so fine…’ ” Rory continued shaking hands with guests.

Tom shrugged.

She greeted two women who approached. “Cherry and Samantha. How are you?”

“Look, the future bride and groom. Rory, let’s see the ring. Gorgeous! How are the wedding plans coming?”

“The wedding,” Rory said as if talking about a stalker. “Running off to Vegas is sounding better and better.”

A collective wail went up.