Dead Aim (27 page)

Parish nodded. “That’s true. We can offer training at any level. Who are your friends? It’s likely I’ll remember them.”

“Well, Ray Darville? Carl Fortin?”

Parish leaned closer and dropped his voice a bit. “I think I know the sort of thing you had in mind. We can talk tomorrow about arranging something, if you’d like. You could stay on after the others leave.”

“Great,” said Altberg. “I’ll do that.”

“Why don’t you meet me here in the lodge tomorrow at, say, two o’clock, after I’ve seen the others off?”

“I’ll be here,” Altberg said. “And thanks.” He stepped forward, turned to face Parish, shook his hand, and moved off.

In a moment, Debbie was at Parish’s side; she stood on tiptoes to put her face close to his ear. “Don’t tell me you’re arranging another expedition already.” He glanced at her and saw that she was wearing a long yellow summer dress with thin straps. The effect was disconcerting, because the dress revealed her soft, curved feminine silhouette, but the upper part left bare the lean, sinewy muscles in her upper back and shoulders.

Parish shrugged. “We’ll see.” He turned to watch her face. “Interested?”

She pursed her lips and squinted. “Not right away.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And not with creaky old geezers like David Altberg. Would I have to?”

He shook his head, and whispered too. “No. It’s nothing that’s likely to demand your skills. There’s a loose end that I could take care of, and give David his thrill at the same time.”

Parish watched her move off into the party. He was often intrigued that there were people who thronged around Debbie. Some were women who seemed to ignore her acerbic manner and see her as a heroine, a big sister. She demonstrated throws in her class by using the most formidable male students as opponents, and some of the women
had never imagined such a thing before. Other admirers were men, who seemed to see only the curves she had accentuated in her body through fifteen years of brutal workouts, and not understand that what she had been doing was fortifying herself against that kind of attention. People understood parts of Debbie. Parish suspected that he was the only one who knew that her indifference to men applied equally to women: she had no interest in sharing her bed with anyone, and not much interest in talking to them.

In the corner of his eye he caught Mary O’Connor’s red hair. Her head turned, she walked past Christiana and Edward, then stopped in front of him. “Michael, will you help me with something out here?”

Parish nodded, then followed her out onto the porch. When she was sure they were alone, she said, “Debbie says you’re going out again right away.”

Parish smiled. “I was going to talk to you about it later. It’s just come up in the past few minutes. A client came to me.”

“You’re using them to get rid of your own problems, aren’t you?”

“It wasn’t about me at all,” he protested. “The detective came here asking about Catherine Broward’s suicide. Catherine seems to have had a kind of inner weakness that we didn’t detect while she was here with us.”

“She was sorry she did it,” said Mary O’Connor. “She told me the next day, and I guess she never got over it. Is that so hard to understand?”

Parish looked at her with detached interest, then scanned the area around them to be sure none of the guests were close enough to the porch to overhear. “To be so eager for the hunt one day, and then be consumed by regret the next is certainly not a sign of stability. But she obviously couldn’t help it. I think we owed her at least enough to protect her memory from some kind of accusation, don’t you?”

She laughed, her eyes glittering, and pushed back her long red hair. “Oh, Michael. You’re so good at this. You don’t care about her, but you think I do.”

“You’re wrong. I feel terribly sorry about her,” he said. “We made a commitment to her to protect her privacy. That isn’t over, is it?”

“I suppose not,” said Mary. She looked at him over the edge of her glass. “Debbie told me you got her a ten-thousand-dollar tip.”

“Did she tell you why?”

She ignored his question and pursued her own train of thought. “And Emily too.”

Parish nodded. “That hunt was a mess. The careful plan we laid out for them was just an inspiration for an evening of improvisation. They opened up while Debbie was within a foot of the target, Emily wasn’t in position yet, and I was still outside. Ten thousand wasn’t enough.”

Mary looked at him for a moment, turned and took a step, then stopped and said, “Keep me in mind.”

“As soon as it came up, I was thinking of you.”

“Who else?”

“I’m not sure at the moment. Emily to handle the client. And I think Spangler.”

She cocked her head, thought for a moment, then nodded. “Spangler would be fine with me. We could be a couple. We’d look good together.” She turned and walked back in to the party. After ten seconds, Parish followed and took his place along the wall.

Mary joined Helen Corrigan and two other students across the room at the hors d’oeuvres table, tolerated a few minutes of their chatter, then stepped over to Edward and Christiana to distract them from each other long enough to get them to include David Altberg. Then she made her way through one more circuit of Parish’s admirers stiffly, her face held in a fixed smile that made her facial muscles tired after a few minutes. She was taller than most of the guests at this party, and her bright red hair was easy to spot above the other heads, so she felt conspicuous.

She acknowledged the women’s compulsive but vague politeness: “I enjoyed the experience very much,” rather than “Thank you so much for” this or that. All of the students had met her, because she
filled in and helped out in the classes, sometimes working the firing line on the range, teaching students to clear jams or rearranging their limbs in proper shooting stances. She often worked with Debbie, assuming the various fighting
kamae
, or showing students how to roll and recover. Debbie needed to perform the roll, but she never let a student throw her. Mary supposed few of the guests knew what she was doing there. They probably thought she was some sort of advanced student who stayed on and on.

In a way, that was exactly what Mary was. She had been Michael Parish’s first friend in this country. She had met him before he was Michael Parish, when he was still only Eric Watkins, and she had been the one who had known things. She had been sixteen, having for the first time gotten too far from North Carolina to be found and dragged back home. She spent time with a changing group of acquaintances, all of them young and from someplace else. Most of them slept in abandoned buildings south of Hollywood, and spent their days trying to get enough money for food and drink. When they did, they sometimes shared, and when they didn’t, they sometimes traded.

Mary O’Connor fit into that world easily. She had already learned that accepting the affection of boys came easily to her. It had always seemed to be the generous thing to do. And now when she did it, they shared their food, drinks, and even their money with her. It wasn’t ever a transaction; it was just that human beings were herd animals, and they accommodated each other’s needs to get along. Often, after she and one of the boys had formed a temporary alliance, she found that the affection she had been feigning had actually come to be.

For the year before she had met Eric Watkins, she had been living most of the time by shoplifting with two other girls, Darlene and Wendy. They would find a fresh shopping bag from a good store or two, then go into another store. Mary would step into the dressing room with one item to try on. On her way in, she would search the nearest stalls to find clothes that somebody had tried on unsuccessfully and left there. She would use a pair of wire cutters to remove the
electronic tags from some of them and slip them into her bag. When she came out, she would very visibly return to the rack the single item she had tried on, and then leave. Darlene would be doing the same, while Wendy kept the clerk busy with requests and complaints.

Mary and her two friends would then station themselves beside an expensive, sporty car they found parked at a different shopping mall, usually near a music store. Mary would accost girls who passed and tell them wonderful stories. Sometimes she had driven a hundred miles from home against her parents’ orders, spent all her money on clothes, and discovered she was out of gas. Another time, she said she had been at a movie with a boyfriend, and he had gotten angry and left her there. She had no money, so she had charged some clothes at the mall, and now she was trying to convert them to cash to get home.

Some of the young girls she chose to hear her pitch were eager to help her because she seemed to be like them, and others were simply eager to take advantage of her misfortune. Even when they suspected she was lying they bought the clothes: the goods were the most desired and sought-after styles and brands, certified by the fact that they were the ones that girls before Mary had selected from all others in the store and wanted badly enough to try on. And they really were bargains. They had real price tags from fine stores to prove it.

One night she was with several acquaintances who had been sleeping in the back of an abandoned camper one of the boys had found parked on a side street a few days before. When she saw them on the street, they were on their way to buy dinner, so she went along. Then Eric Watkins turned up. She did not see him arrive. He just materialized in her peripheral vision on the street among the others, and they began to talk. He seemed to be no more than two or three years older than the oldest boy, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, but he had a kind of self-assurance that made him a hundred years older than anyone.

After that evening, Eric Watkins showed up on the street twice more. Nobody in the group expressed much curiosity about what he
was doing there, but when one of the boys asked where he was from, he said he had come from Australia, and had “gone walkabout.” Mary had pondered the phrase for a few days, partly because she liked the sound of it and partly because it meant that he was probably going to move on soon, and she was not sure how she felt about it. But the next time someone asked, he answered that he was from Canada and had registered at UCLA. The third time Eric Watkins simply came and took her.

He had always come on foot before, but this time he pulled up in a car, as she had known he would sometime. She was walking on Sunset with her friends Wendy and Darlene, and when he pulled up and stopped the car, all three of them stopped walking and looked for a moment. Then the other two had turned and walked on, while she had stepped to the curb and gotten into the car.

She had sat in the front seat beside him. Although she’d had no idea where he was going, or what he intended to do with her when he got there, she had sensed that all uncertainty was over. She had known from that moment not that she would be okay, because nobody could know that, but that she would be possessed, told what to do. The car door had slammed shut, and she had been home.

She and Eric Watkins had traveled for a time. Sometimes he would stop to work just long enough to buy them some new clothes and the next few tanks of gas, and then they would move on. Sometimes they would both get jobs and stay for several months. She would clean hotel rooms in the morning while he sold cars. He was very good at selling things, she supposed because he had a slight accent that sometimes sounded British, and the snobs would buy anything they were told to buy in an accent like that. In the evening she would wait tables at a restaurant while he worked as a bouncer in a bar. It seemed to be a job he had no difficulty getting, because he was an expert at unarmed combat. She had known when she had met him in Los Angeles that he had been a soldier for some extended period, because when everyone else was slouching on the street, maybe leaning on things as they
talked, he would often slip into a stance with his hands clasped behind him and his feet exactly as far apart as his shoulders. You couldn’t grow up in the part of North Carolina where she had, surrounded by military bases, and not recognize parade rest.

She had been the one to pick up Emily. Mary had been in a laundromat in Phoenix, washing her clothes and Michael’s—he had just become Michael—so she could pack them clean before they went on the road again. She had noticed Emily, because Emily was not happy. They were about the same age, and Mary could see that Emily was washing some clothes that were hers, and some that belonged to a man. The place was hot as only a laundromat in Arizona—with eight commercial dryers going on high heat and surrounded by a mile of blacktop on every side—could be.

The sweat was making Emily’s curly, dark hair hang in ringlets. Mary said, “Hot in here.”

Emily turned her head quickly, startled. “What?”

Mary guessed that Emily had been so completely locked in her reverie of dissatisfaction that she was not actually sure that Mary had spoken. She looked relieved when Mary answered, “I said it was hot in here,” then giggled. “Did you ever notice that when you have to repeat something like that, you feel really dumb? Both of you listen to it very carefully while you’re saying it again, and when it’s over, it wasn’t actually telling anybody anything they didn’t know.”

Emily’s expression turned into something better than relief, a kind of fellow feeling, as Mary had hoped it would. Mary instinctively knew it was time to wait, so she picked up a magazine that somebody had left on the blue molded-plastic seat next to her. It was an issue of
People
. The cover had been torn off, but she could still tell. It was so old that the story the pages naturally opened to was about a hot new TV star—a pretty blond girl like all of them were—who had by now been around forever. Mary had never picked up the habit of reading for pleasure, but she did not mind looking at photographs, so she began to leaf through the magazine from back to front, letting her
eyes trace the contours of the beautiful faces. After a few minutes she could sense that Emily was becoming increasingly agitated. As Mary serenely stared at the pictures, Emily’s movements became more quick and fluttery. Finally, Emily blurted out, “I’m Emily. What’s your name?”