Night Relics (12 page)

“How can you be sure she hasn’t just taken off? Divorce
screws people up. Being mad is like being drunk, you know. It makes you do things that you’d never do sober.”

“Not a chance,” Peter said, explaining about the traveler’s checks and the plane tickets. “Nobody leaves their money behind
when they skip town.”

“What if she declared the checks lost,” Beth asked, “and then picked up replacement checks at American Express? That’s what
I’d have done. Did you call the airlines? Maybe she did the same thing there. For that matter, who says she’s not in Hawaii?”

Peter was silenced by the idea. The checks thing hadn’t occurred to him. Still, he just didn’t believe it. “I know her,” he
said. “That just isn’t Amanda.”

“You don’t know Amanda mad,” Beth said. “Believe me. I don’t know her nearly as well as you do, but I know that much. I thought
I knew myself, but I didn’t. There were times when I could have killed Walter, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that. If
you had seen Bobby sitting on that log waiting for him, trying not to cry as it got darker and darker out, you’d have killed
the bastard yourself.”

Before he could say anything more, their waitress appeared. “Peter,” she said, looking surprised. Then she looked briefly
and coolly at Beth before looking back at Peter again.

“Hi, Peg,” Peter said. “This is Beth.” Then to Beth he said, “Peggy’s a friend of Amanda’s.”

“Glad to meet you,” Beth said.

“I guess I’ll have a Coors,” Peter said.

“You sounded pretty screwed up on the phone this afternoon,” Peggy said. “Everything okay?” She looked at Beth again, as if
this had been said partly for her benefit.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Everything’s fine.”

“Something to drink?” she asked Beth.

“Iced tea, thanks.”

“Right,” she said. “A Coors and an iced tea coming up.”

“And a Coke for my son,” Beth said.

They ordered food then, and Peggy walked away toward the kitchen.

“Woof,” Beth said. “Did you see the look she gave me?”

Peter shook his head. “She’s not like that. That wasn’t a look.”

“That was an iron-clad look. You could have sailed it through a hurricane. She doesn’t know about this, about Amanda disappearing?”

“I …” Peter sat back and stared at the ties hanging from the ceiling. “I couldn’t. I can’t talk about it. I called a few people
this afternoon just to see if maybe somebody would say something to clear things up. Everyone thinks she’s in Hawaii. I didn’t
tell them anything different.”

“To hell with it, then. Tell them some other time. What can you do, though? Did the cop suggest anything you can do?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “He told me that I can avoid leaving town. Hell, I don’t know. I guess I’ll go door to door. See if anyone
out in the canyon recognizes them from a photo.” Suddenly he was crying again. Going door to door with an old photo—the idea
of it seemed pitiful to him, and the windy night outside was vast and empty.

“Shit,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I just don’t
do
this.”

“Yes, you do,” Beth said, reaching across and putting her hand on his arm. He was struck with how beautiful she was, with
how much he wanted her help in this.

“You know,” she said, “I came around to see you later on this morning, but you weren’t there.”

“When?”

“Ten, I guess. You were in town. I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that.”

“That’s all right. You had stuff to do and all.…”

“Not that much stuff. I said enough to stir you up and then I left. Anyway, for what it’s worth, I wanted you to know that
I hiked back over later.”

“Thanks,” Peter said. “It’s worth a lot. I have to say something about it, though.”

“Say what you have to say.”

“I’ve got to find Amanda and David,” he said. “I have to get them back.”

“Of course,” Beth said.

“I don’t want you to think …”

“What?”

“It’s what you were talking about this morning. I’ve done some thinking since then.”

“So have I,” she said. “Why don’t you do what you have to do? You don’t need to make any excuses or apologies to me. Give
yourself a little more credit. You’re not some kind of villain in this. It’s not your
fault
.”

He sat there silently for a moment. There was no point in going into more detail, about the argument, about him driving away
mad and leaving Amanda and David alone. “Still coming over tomorrow?” he asked.

“Bobby’s looking forward to it.”

There was a hand on Peter’s shoulder then. It was Bobby, carrying a couple of dollar bills.

“I’m bored,” Bobby said. “They ought to have more than one machine here. What’s wrong?” he asked Peter, suddenly looking into
his face.

Peter wiped his eyes again. “Nothing,” he said. “I’ve got a bone in my leg.”

“Me too,” Bobby said. “It’s nothing to cry about.” Then he sat down and picked up a menu.

“Kids are too smart,” Peter said to Beth. “My mother used to tell me about having a bone in her leg and I was perfectly satisfied.
Now kids know all about human anatomy.”

“I even know how the human heart works,” Bobby said. “We learned about it. It’s just a bunch of valves.”

Peter stared at him, unable to think of anything to say, and right then Beth reached over and pulled Bobby’s hat off. He tried
to pin it to his head, but he wasn’t quick
enough. She put it in her lap, as if to guard it.

“Why can’t
I
have a condition?” Bobby asked.

“You’re not old enough to have a condition,” Peter told him. “If you wear a hat at the table you insult everyone in here.
None of them will be able to eat. It’s too disturbing. The problem is that back when people were apes, they used to eat out
of their hats. That was before they invented plates. So if people see someone wearing a hat at the table now, it reminds them
that they used to be apes.”

“Your mother’s side of the family was never apes,” Beth said to Bobby. “We don’t wear hats at the table because we’ve got
too much class. So forget the hat.” She looked around just then, as if searching for the waitress, but then suddenly looked
back down at the table and said, “Oh, shit—shoot,” and began studying her silverware.

“What?” Peter asked.

“
Ummm
,” Bobby said to his mother, shaking his head, “that’s
way
worse than my hat.”

“That guy over there. Don’t look up.” She glanced behind her. “Never mind. He’s seen me. Here he comes.”

A man walked toward them, smiling like a television evangelist. His hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. “Well,”
he said, holding out his hand. “It’s a small world, a helluva small world.”

Peter shook his hand, which was rubbery. He was reminded of the joke chickens at the Sprouse Reitz that morning.

“Henry Adams,” he said, and then he reached across and tousled Bobby’s hair. “What’s your name, fellah?”

“Bobby,” Bobby said, and looked at Beth, who reluctantly handed him his hat back. He put the hat on, yanking it low over his
forehead.

To Peter the man said, “I met the little lady out in the canyon this morning. You must be …?”

“Peter Travers. You’ve got a place in the canyon?”

“No,” the man said, “I’m shopping around, talking to
a few people. I love this area. I’m interested in the environment.”

“Good,” Peter said. “So am I.” There seemed to be a wall of dead air behind the man’s words, as if Peter were talking into
a vacancy. “It’s end-to-end environment out here,” Peter said. He found suddenly that he didn’t like the man and was right
at the edge of saying something outright insulting. He told himself to calm down. His patience was about one molecule thin.
The man looked like the grinning salesman from hell, but that was no reason to pick a fight.

“Your place up for sale?”

Peter was struck forcibly by the thought. Selling his place hadn’t occurred to him, and he wondered for the first time what
it was worth. Prices were going up like crazy out there, and lots of people were selling. His house was falling apart, literally.
It had looked pretty rickety when he moved in, but since then he had really gotten a chance to take a close look at it.…” I
don’t know,” he said.

“Here’s my card.” Peter took it, and Adams looked hard at Beth, smiling, but without any real emotion in the smile. “I’m certain
I’ll see
you
again,” he said to her.

She hesitated long enough for the silence to become awkward, and Adams broke it by becoming hearty. “Think about making me
an offer,” he said to Peter. “That was cabin number …?”

“Twelve,” Peter said, immediately regretting having said it.

The man left, winking hard at Peggy, who just then showed up with their drinks.

“Friend of yours?” she asked Peter.

“Not mine,” Peter said quickly.

“Creepola,” Beth said. “I ran into him snooping around behind Mr. Ackroyd’s place when I was heading back home this morning.
I think he tried to put the make on me. He actually asked what my sign was.”

“Him?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. I don’t know what he was up to.”

“He was eating with a guy in the back,” Peggy said. “He’s a regular customer, the other guy is. Lives right around here.”

“It’s Mr. Klein!” Bobby said suddenly, pointing toward the adjacent room. A man waved toward them, just getting up from his
chair.

“That’s him,” Peggy said. She turned away, heading toward another table.

It seemed to Peter that Klein looked embarrassed, almost hunted, as if he wished there had been a handy back door, a way he
could have avoided being seen. He’d only met the man a couple of times, but he knew Bobby liked him, and that was a good recommendation.

“Mr. Klein used to play baseball,” Bobby said.

He approached the table. “Getting down in front of those grounders?” he asked Bobby. “Don’t be afraid to dig ’em out of there.
That’s why God gave you a body, so you could get hit a couple of times.”

“You remember Peter?” Beth asked.

“Of course,” Klein said, putting out his hand.

Peter shook it. “Wife’s not here?” he asked.

“This was business,” Klein said, as if it were already clear that his wife wasn’t welcome when it came to business matters.

“Who
was
that guy?” Beth asked. “I seem to be running into him all over the place.”

Klein hesitated, as if he were surprised by the question. “He’s just a guy looking for something to buy. He knew I was a contractor
and he thought that maybe I had a lead on some kind of property out here. He’s got good money to spend, but I told him I couldn’t
help him. I’m a contractor; I’m not in the real estate business.” He winked at Bobby.

“What’s his name?” Beth asked.

“What?” Klein said.

“I was wondering what his name was.”

“I’ve got his card here,” Peter said helpfully, and Beth
rolled her eyes at him, as if he’d made some sort of blunder. “ ‘Henry Adams,’ it says. Under that it says, ‘Quality, an American
way of life.’ ”

“What’s that mean?” Bobby asked.

“Nobody knows,” Peter said, throwing the card down on the tabletop.

“It means you don’t go out to play ball unless you give it a hundred percent,” Klein said. “Am I right?”

“Sure,” Bobby said.

“Then keep it up, champ. With that arm of yours you’ll make the majors.” He looked at his watch, registered surprise, and
said, “I better beat it, I guess. Nice talking to you folks.” He hurried away toward the door.

“I wonder if that’s the guy’s real name,” Beth said.

“Of course it is,” Peter said. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

The food arrived just then. Peter’s steak covered most of the plate, and there were enough french fries and ranch beans to
feed half the population of the county. “Let me show you how an ape eats,” he said to Bobby.

B
Y EIGHT O’CLOCK THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN BEYOND THE
ridge, and a broad black shadow had swept the canyon into evening. Above, on the ridges and the brush-covered hillsides,
the chaparral shone pink and purple and gray in the waning light. Peter bumped along in the Suburban, edging around potholes
and creeping across rocky, wind-scoured washes. Leaves blew across the hood of the car like tumbling black shadows in the
darkness.

The lower end of the road cut through a gravelly section of river bottom where the canyon widened out. There were stands of
sumac and greasewood and a few scrub oaks and stunted sycamores, but the low vegetation was upstaged by the hulks of stripped
cars, rusty and shot full of bullet holes.

About a mile in, the canyon narrowed, and the steep walls rose away on either side, deepening the evening twilight. The Suburban
navigated through the darkness, the headlights barely penetrating the black spaces between the heavy trees on either side
of the road.

Peter was full of steak and french fries and salad, and could almost imagine being able to fall asleep tonight— something
that would have seemed impossible to him a few hours ago. Beth and Bobby were coming over tomorrow. He would take things a
day at a time.

The Suburban rounded a curve, its headlights momentarily illuminating the waters of Trabuco Creek, which was lined with alders
and edged with enormous water-polished lumps of granite. Falls Canyon, where the hiker had supposedly seen the bodies, lay
somewhere off to the left, and Peter slowed down, suddenly imagining the narrow, rock-strewn canyon again, littered with autumn
leaves and fallen limbs.

Although no one had described the scene to him in any detail, he still pictured it with chilling clarity: the crumpled bodies
of the woman and child, veiled by mist, lying half-submerged in the shallow pool at the base of the falls, their clothes buoyed
up on the moving current, strands of the woman’s hair trailing away from her upturned face like delicate waterweeds.…

The Suburban crept along as Peter looked out into the night, abruptly certain that he would be able to see something meaningful
in the dark tapestry of the forest. The trees and the shadows were suddenly compelling, as if he were reentering the abandoned
landscape of a long-forgotten dream. Something, an answer, a cipher, lay hidden in the windblown darkness.…