Dangerous (33 page)

I mulled that over. She continued:

“Have you ever read
The Time Machine
, Koishi?”

I thought back. “In high school. That’s where humanity splits into two species, right? One from the rich, I think, and the other from the working class. Eloi, and…Mur, Mor…”

“Morlocks. Correct. Pale, ugly things who live underground, tending the machines for so long they can’t bear sunlight.”

“Right, I remember. And didn’t the Morlocks…”

“Eat the Eloi? Yes. One can’t expect to lead a life of ease without some sort of payment. There’s no free lunch, after all.”

“What are you saying, Val?” I felt goosebumps on my arm, tried to rub them away. This was important.

“I’m not saying anything. We’re simply discussing an interesting book.” But of course that was a lie. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Val said lightly. She placed her hand on my cheek and kissed my forehead, as she had in my first weeks as a doll. But I lifted my head to kiss her boldly on the lips, out of a desire to hold onto the ground I’d won last night. She didn’t object.

“I suppose it’s time I took you home,” Val said. “I have to get ready for tomorrow.”

She took my chin in her hand. “Paint. Send me a haiku each day, by email. And spend some time with Grace while I’m gone. If you can get one good haiku out of that girl I’ll be greatly pleased.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, in automatic response to her instructions.

“Good girl.”

25     
chamber

ON MY TENTH birthday I received a new bicycle; a beautiful, gleaming thing made of freedom and adventure. Dad put it together after the party, and I spent the remaining daylight riding up and down the street, thinking of all the places I’d go tomorrow. But that night came news that grandpa Julio was dying, and we drove to Bakersfield the following morning. I spent the next three days trapped in a world of hushed rooms, gloomy grownups, nothing to do…and no bike. It was torture.

I felt a similar pain now, with Val’s going away just at the moment of a breakthrough. I ached for her.

But there were also doubts, which thrived in her absence. Had she really, truly opened up, or was it just another of her mind games? Yet here was her watch, and I doubted she’d part with something so precious just for a prank.

I kept the watch on my nightstand when I slept, wound it upon waking, and wore it to work. I found myself taking it out now and then, fingering its engraved cover, recalling Val’s words and the strange journey we’d taken to reach this point.

And yet…unlike the amber pendant, which she had sent with a haiku—

inexorable
a golden suffocation
no longer fragile

—and which I still wore, the pocket watch felt alien. I was too aware of this foreign object in my body’s space, of its weight against my thigh. Holding it, I feared dropping it.
I’ll whip you to an inch of your life
, Val had warned.

Tuesday afternoon, in reference to that earlier haiku, I emailed this to Val:

unequivocal
a golden supplication
no longer veiled

Not nearly as good as hers. But I figured she’d get the connection. I received no reply.

Mercifully, work didn’t allow much time to mull on these matters, because during my absence a crisis had occurred on the
Pretty Death Machine
project. The studio heads at American Pictures had finally seen our finished shots with the robot girl’s razor-blade fingernails, and decided they didn’t like Mr. Pixelfucker’s Geigeresque direction for the effect.
More sexy, less terminator
, they said, and three weeks of work went down the drain because of an internal struggle on the client’s part. It didn’t matter that Bob was their own representative, or that we’d delivered exactly what he requested. Now it all had to be redone, and fast. At least we’d get to charge them a ridiculous amount of overage. More overtime for me. Yay.

It was a very busy week, which meant nights of arriving home at nine or ten, dead tired.

But this regimen had the effect of giving me vivid, strange dreams, and Thursday morning I awoke with the inspiration for the next painting, which I worked on the next two nights and most of the weekend.

For this image I mimicked the American Primitive style, tuned to about halfway between Grandma Moses and Edward Hopper. The location was a hill overlooking a valley, the air turned the color of butter with light of the afternoon sun. A distant hawk soared on a warm breeze.

On the left side of the painting was a tree, and coiled upon one of its branches was an albino Burmese python, quite large.

Like a fruit, an open pocket watch hung from the tree branch near the serpent, displaying a time of 3:35.

Swimming in the air beneath the tree was a golden koi, about three feet in length, angled upward as if preparing to nibble the watch.

On the right, and somewhat further back, was a Beatrix Potter-style rabbit sitting upright, watching the snake and koi with some anxiety. It held a shiny balloon by a string in its paw.

And across the bottom, printed upon a banner with curled ends, was the painting’s title: TEMPTATION.

Its frank surreality was intended to be a little unsettling. I’d aimed for a biblical flavor, enigmatic and raw. While only Val would truly understand the imagery, a viewer would have fun trying to decode all those vaguely ominous symbols. In fact, I had my doubts about the artistic merits of the whole, but at least I was being productive. Maybe I’d do better with the next one.

Sunday evening, when I’d finished, I emailed the image to her along with another haiku, in the same format as before.

irresistible
a golden fascination
no longer righteous

Again, no reply.

§

My phone bleeped at work the next morning. But it was mom’s number, not Val’s.
Crap.
I walked outside to take the call, and found a quiet spot between a couple of sound stages. Even though the day was still young, the air had already grown uncomfortably warm.

I steeled myself with a deep breath and answered the call.

“Hi, mom.” I said it with practiced cheer.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said. I hated when she called me that, but asking her to stop would only start an argument, so I bit my tongue and counted to five. Then: “How’s dad?”

“He’s a little under the weather this week,” she said. Dad was always under the weather; but this was our code for
he’s very ill
. It was so hard to watch him suffer, especially when no one knew exactly what it was that had destroyed his health.

“Should I come visit?” More code. It was my way of probing the gravity of his condition. But thankfully mom said no, the new prescription was helping, and she’d let me know if things changed.

Then she complained about the weather, and the outrageous utility bill she got for accidentally over-watering the lawn. I let her rant.

Her next question was the one I dreaded most.

“You’re dating someone, aren’t you? You haven’t called in weeks. Tell me you’re seeing someone. One of those handsome actors at your work? Or maybe a rich producer. I’ll never understand why you stopped seeing that Brent.”

Marrying me to wealth would solve all of her problems in one stroke, and now I understood the reason for her call. In the light of dad’s declining health, she was growing desperate. I couldn’t blame her.

“No, Mom, stop,” I groaned.

There was no way I could tell her about Val. In fact, I didn’t know how to explain my relationship with Val to
anyone
, not even Trish, let alone my mother. My thoughts circled that black hole for a few moments, before coming back to find myself in the middle of a lecture.

“…Maybe if you wore nice blouses instead of tee shirts all the time. Used a little makeu—”

I wasn’t in the mood for this. “Okay, I did meet a guy named Paul at the mall. He’s half-Hawaiian…”

She took the bait, and I was spared for the moment. I led her on briefly before admitting he was just a tattoo artist, not at all wealthy or famous. Her disappointment was palpable. I begged off and managed to hang up before we had time to pick a fight.

But back at my desk, fresh doubt gnawed at me. What
did
I have with Val? Was there any hope of a happily-ever-after? She and I were far beyond the edge of any relationship map I knew, deep into the part labeled
Here Be Dragons
.

I was an only child, and not getting any younger. Pretty soon my parents would need a lot more financial help. I cursed under my breath, with the realization I was beginning to think like Mom.

It was a lucky thing Val was incommunicado, because this sudden pang of insecurity would have compelled me to call her for reassurance. Such things never went over well with Val. Dolls who started making demands ended up getting the boot.

But this wasn’t codependency, dammit. It was love, and
she
was the one with issues. Not me.

I took out the pocket watch and fingered it. For all my emotional investment in the woman, what did I know for certain about her? Nothing.

There had to be a way to learn something tangible about her, anything at all. So far my investigations had been in vain, but I still had a couple of leads I might explore. But where to start? Did I dare?

I had her work number, lightly encrypted, in my phone’s memory. But that was much too risky.

Millie and Grace didn’t know anything useful, I’d bank on that.

Milton did, though, and he genuinely seemed to want things to work out between Val and me. But he’d gone as far out on a limb as he could with the scrapbooks and his carefully worded fairy tale. Unless there was a real emergency, I didn’t dare ask him for any more information.

Brent? Maybe. But whatever it was they shared in the past, I had the odd feeling she held some dirt on him. If not exactly blackmail material, then perhaps an uncomfortable bit of information he’d prefer to keep private. I didn’t completely trust him not to tell Val I’d gone digging. So scratch that idea.

I thought back to the scrapbook, and the glimpses I’d had of her past. Military records? Business journals? I’d already done a lot of searches in that direction, without a breakthrough.

Shooting ranges? Not enough to go on.

Wait.

The photo shoot in the desert, with the pistol, and the slender male model. He’d also been in that nightclub photo, which suggested they’d hung out or dated a few times. If so, he might have learned a thing or two about her during those early wild days. And she’d never mentioned him, so they were probably estranged now, which made him a safer contact than Milton or Brent.

If I called the publisher…

And if they were still in business…

And if they kept any sort of records…

…they might have his phone number or email. Then I could pose as a talent scout, and ask him a few innocuous questions about the strange, pale girl with the gun.

I laughed at myself. This was starting to sound like a trashy paperback suspense novel. And I didn’t remember the name of the magazine.

But while working I tried to visualize the magazine page in my head. The publication had a one-word name, starting with a
C
. A catchy, slightly ominous name. A gun word, maybe, or something dungeon-y.

I considered calling Milton’s house. If he answered I would hang up. But if Josie answered, I might sweet-talk her into finding the scrapbook and getting the name of the magazine. No, best to avoid that if at all possible. Too much risk of exposure with Milton.

Chimera. Camera. Camelot. Camphor.

I couldn’t stop mouthing the words. It was right there on the tip of my brain. A dark word, with multiple meanings.

Carbine. Camouflage. Chameleon.

This would drive me nuts.

When Carl called us to dailies, I sat in the dark screening room watching the latest footage with glazed eyes, totally lost in my memory game, a million miles away.
Cancer. Canker. Cambrian.

I didn’t even notice Carl calling my name until he waved a hand before my face.

“Huh?” I said.

“Perhaps you’d care to give us your expert opinion of this shot, Miss Paz?” Carl said, more amused than annoyed.

“Oh, sure.”

God damn, I’d be glad when
Pretty Death Machine
was done. The show had been trouble from day one, and Mr. Pixelfucker had caused most of our pain. But this time, amazingly, it wasn’t his fault.

It was a fix-it-in-post problem, totally unexpected, and not part of our original bid. This close to our deadline, we could charge them an arm and a leg, and they’d have to grin and bear it.

Carl gave me a brief rundown on the shot, a dramatic over-the-shoulder angle of the film’s heroine, cocking the huge revolver she held aimed at the assassin robot’s pretty head. A killer shot except for one thing: a shadow obscured the butt-end of the large-caliber bullet sitting in the gun. So they wanted us to track the camera
and
the gun, roto out the hammer, and composite a shinier bullet into the hole. And, while we were at it, could we please add a nice specular glint just to make
sure
the audience saw it? Though tedious, it wasn’t an especially difficult shot, but it had to be done by 9am tomorrow morning. The director had decided the fate of the movie depended on this one stupid bullet glittering like a star in the chamber of that big gun.

Chamber.

That was it. Chamber. The name of the magazine.

It took a moment to collect myself and assure Carl that I could get the shot done by that afternoon, plenty of time for a revision or two before the end of the day. Satisfied, he told me where to find the scanned frames on the network and sent me back to my desk.

I did an internet search on
chamber art underground magazine
while waiting for the 2D tracker to solve the match-move on the bullet shot. In five minutes I had what I needed. The magazine, based in San Francisco, had gone out of business a few years ago, but I found a phone number and the name of the former editor-in-chief.