Tapping the Source, page 27
40
He left the room as he had found it, lit only by the pale light entering through the glass doors. But it felt more like a tomb now, and as he closed the door after him he felt something go out of him, as if some piece of himself had been left there.
He found another set of steps at the far end of the hall, and a door to the outside. He went through it and felt the cool air, damp and heavy on his face. His face, he thought, was very hot, almost feverish, as he moved through a dark garden, around a corner of the house, and into one of the patios where guests were congregating.
A fair-sized group had already arrived. Some had seated themselves in lawn chairs, others on the ground. Ike stood for a moment at the edge of the patio, searching for Michelle, taking in the scene. The ages of the guests appeared mixed, though most looked to be younger than Milo, closer in fact to Hound’s age, and Ike was reminded of the conversation he’d recently overheard—the silver-haired man’s question about control, Milo’s answer that he depended upon Hound.
Many of the people were dressed simply, in Levi jeans, Mexican pullovers, or Levi jackets. Others, however, were decked out more elaborately in a kind of funky evening dress that seemed to Ike to be more costume than anything else. The clothing seemed to have something to do with how the guests were grouped. A circle of those more simply dressed had been formed upon the concrete floor of the patio, and as Ike turned toward them he saw that Hound Adams was there as well, seated at the center of the group, apparently engaged in some conversation, or debate, with a thickly built bald-headed man Ike had not seen before. Ike was too far away to catch anything of what was being said, but he could see both men moving their heads, occasionally gesturing with their hands. The rest of those seated on the ground seemed to be following the conversation with some interest. And though a few of the more elaborately dressed people had come to stand at the edge of the circle, most of the others were scattered about across the garden, forming smaller groups of their own.
Through an open sliding door Ike caught a glimpse of the two men he’d seen earlier, in the entry with Hound and Milo. He could see a bit of light shining off the taller man’s hair. Whether or not Milo was with them he could not say. Music drifted from the house and across the gardens—damp now in the fog, so that where the light struck the leaves of the plants the leaves looked slick and wet. Ike stood for a moment longer, making certain that Michelle was not among the guests, then he stepped backward, away from the edge of concrete and into the shadows.
He was desperate to find her now. He did not want to go back into the house by way of the patio. He did not want to risk another confrontation with either Hound or Milo, as he still did not know what was expected of him. He was beginning to feel rather foolish in the clothes. They were, he decided, a little like those costumes he’d seen some of the guests in. But there was something else about them as well, something that made him feel he had already compromised himself, that he was Milo’s boy.
It was back near the front of the house, looking for the door he had come out of, that he heard the sound of an engine starting somewhere in the night. He hurried along a narrow walkway and up a ragged flight of stone steps. The steps led up to the great circular lawn and he reached the level of the lawn in time to see a set of headlights moving toward him out of the fog. The headlights turned away from him as the drive curved, and he saw Frank Baker’s yellow van move past him. Frank must have spotted him coming up the steps, because the van slowed a bit as it went by and he could see Frank’s face turned toward him through the glass. They were not separated by much, ten or twelve feet perhaps, but it was still too dark to make out an expression on Frank’s face. There were only the shadows of features, the curly blond hair, slicked back and wet, catching a bit of light—just as it once had in that alley in Huntington Beach the night Ike had seen him talking to Preston Marsh.
The van did not slow to a complete stop. The face turned from the window and it was all gone, nothing left but the red glow of taillights vanishing among the trees and finally just the sound of the engine, growing fainter until it too was swallowed by the forest, by the silence of the ranch.
• • •
When he finally found her, she was downstairs in the theater she had spoken of. It was a small theater, but a theater nonetheless. There were perhaps three-dozen seats, a screen, and a small stage. Thick velvet curtains covered the walls, and where the curtains were parted there were various pieces of ornamental plaster, scrollwork, prowling cats and lions’ heads with soft blue light spilling from their jaws. Michelle was alone in the room. She was seated on an aisle down near the front, one leg over the arm of her chair so that the white dress was pushed back on her thigh. There was a drink in one hand, resting on her knee, and when she turned to look up at him her eyes appeared sleepy and slightly out of focus.
“Don’t you like it?” she asked as he knelt beside her. “This room is so great.”
“Michelle, we’ve got to go, now.”
She blinked at him in a slightly drunken fashion. “He told me to wait here. What are you talking about?”
He looked instinctively over one shoulder, back toward the heavy wooden doors at the end of the aisle. “I’m talking about leaving, just the two of us, right now.” He put a hand on her arm. “Look, just trust me, okay? I can explain it to you on the way. Right now we’ve just got to get started.”
She seemed to sink farther back into the seat. “But why . . .”
“Because something crazy is going on here,” he told her. He was talking quickly now, like he was running out of breath. “Remember how we thought my sister went to Mexico, how that was what the kid told me? Well, I came up here because I was afraid you were going to go. I didn’t want you to. I wanted to talk you out of it, to tell you what I’d learned. But it’s not Mexico, Michelle. Ellen never went to Mexico. They brought her here, to the ranch, and they did something.” He was squeezing her arm now and she tried to jerk it away from him. He held on tighter. Finally she just shouted at him to stop, and so he did. He let go of her arm and she sat there rubbing it.
“Jesus,” she said. “Slow down a minute. Hound knows why you’re here, you know. He knows you’re Ellen’s brother. And I didn’t tell him.”
“He’s known it since that party at his house. I’ve just talked to him.”
“He says that she was in Huntington Beach but that she’s gone, that she was running away and that she didn’t want anyone following her. He says that she didn’t want you following her. But that you don’t handle it very well so you make up things.”
“And you believe that?”
She was still holding her arm, looking down now at the floor. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure what to believe. You were right about one thing. You remember that dress shop Ellen worked in with Marsha? I wanted us to go there but you said it wouldn’t do any good. Well, you were mostly right. The old lady that owns it says she doesn’t know anything about where Ellen went. But she said she left without picking up some money the old lady owed her. She said it’s not that much, but that if I could get an address she would mail it. I was going to tell you but I never got the chance.”
Ike was silent for a moment, thinking about Michelle going to check that out, thinking of what she had told him. “But I just don’t know, Ike,” Michelle was saying now. “You were acting like such a jerk. . . .”
Ike reached up suddenly and tore one of the ivory combs from her hair. She made a small, sharp cry and put one hand to her head. Ike held the comb in front of her face. “Do you see this?” he said. “It was hers, Michelle. It was Ellen’s goddamn comb. Our mother gave these to her. And she wouldn’t have gone off without them. Listen to me. I saw this picture once. Hound had sold it to these guys that buy dope from him. I didn’t get a real good look at it, but it looked like a picture of a chick who’d been all cut up.” He shook his head. “I don’t know exactly how. But all this shit connects. The movies Hound makes, those runaway girls he’s always trying to meet. And that day on the boat. Hound was delivering movies. I think Hound spends the summer making those damn things, then he shows them to Milo. They’re looking for something—the right people, something. And then they come up here. Milo’s summer party. Have you taken a good look at this place? They could pull any kind of shit they wanted to up here and no one would know. All I know is that something bad is coming down, Michelle. Here. Hound was acting very strange—which is not that unusual, but he was trying to lay this trip on me about choosing, about how if I made the right choice I could be his partner or some damn thing. But I don’t want to be his partner, Michelle. I’ve already chosen, and Hound’s not going to like it when he finds out. That’s why we’ve got to leave, both of us, now.”
She was really looking at him at last. He was still not sure that she believed what he was telling her, but there was no more time to talk. He got to his feet and pulled her up with him. Her leg swung down off the seat and her drink hit the floor between them, the glass breaking. “Ike.” She started to say something but did not finish. She was cut short by the soft swish of a swinging door.
“Not leaving?” The words drifted down to them from the back of the room. Ike turned to see Milo Trax and Hound Adams standing at the top of the aisle. Milo held something in his hand, what looked like a roll of film. Standing behind Milo and Hound were the two men Ike had seen before, the tall man with silver hair and his thick, dark friend. “But they make a fine pair, don’t they?” Milo asked. No one answered him.
Ike felt something twisting in his chest. He looked at Michelle. She was still watching him, her eyes wide and clear now. But he had been too late.
The four men came down the aisle. Hound was holding something as well, a dark leather bag. The silver-haired man had his hands pushed into the pockets of the blue blazer jacket. He was smiling. Ike looked at each of the men, then at Hound Adams. Hound met his stare, but his expression did not change—it was in fact a perfect blank and after a moment he looked away, toward the screen and the heavy curtains. And there was something in just that simple movement of the eyes that suggested something, a kind of washing of the hands, perhaps. Hound and Ike had had their little talk. Hound had done what he could; what happened now was between Ike and Milo Trax—or so it seemed.
“I was about to suggest that we do drugs and make a movie,” Milo said. “You ought to be in pictures. And you will, both of you.”
The gray-haired man, Ike noticed, was watching Milo and smiling. “I always wondered how you handled these things,” he said. Hound Adams unzipped the small leather bag and removed a needle and a syringe, also a light-colored cord.
“What is it?” Michelle asked. “Coke?”
“What the doctor ordered,” Milo answered. He was looking at Ike now. “Right?” he asked.
Ike didn’t answer. He looked at Milo and then he turned and looked at Hound Adams. He did it very deliberately. He turned his shoulder to Milo and his friends and he waited until Hound raised his eyes from the works in his hands. When he did, his face was still without expression—as if Ike were a perfect stranger. But Ike knew better. He knew what he was going to say; he only hoped that he could say it without his voice cracking. His heart was beating heavily, making it hard to breathe. “We don’t want it,” he said. “Neither of us. And no more movies.” He watched Hound Adams. “And we’re going to leave. Now.” He knew, of course, that it was not true, but it was something he wanted to say—for the record or some damn thing. He even reached behind him with one hand, as if to take Michelle’s, as if the two of them were going to step out into the aisle and go home.
Somewhere at his side, Ike heard Milo making a soft clicking sound with his mouth. He thought that Milo was shaking his head a bit too, sadly, from side to side, but he was not sure; he didn’t want to take his eyes off Hound. And Hound’s expression was starting to change just a bit now, or so it seemed to Ike; he was beginning to look rather tired again, as he had in Milo’s study. He was still not looking at Ike, however. He was very carefully putting his works back in the bag, and then setting the bag on the chair in front of Ike and Michelle. Then he looked up and for a moment their eyes met. And then Hound hit him.
He hit him so fast and hard that for a moment Ike was not even sure where he had been hit, only that something was very wrong, that he had lost his voice and that he was drowning. He was on his knees when Hound took possession of his arm, pinning it between his own bicep and upper body while Milo bent to roll Ike’s sleeve. Ike watched Milo—eyes fixed on the needle, mouth pursed in a disapproving fashion. He watched the cord go around his arm, and then he watched the needle slip under the skin. He was not sure what to expect. He waited for a rush but it did not come. There was instead a kind of gradual blurring, a slowing down, a slipping into darkness. The experience was not unlike the time the doctor put him out in King City to work on his leg. And somewhere, going down, he thought he heard Michelle scream and he tried to pull himself back, but it was no use. He was definitely going, going under. He could still see their faces, though—Hound and Milo peering down on him from this great height, cheek to cheek almost, it appeared to Ike, like a pair of surgeons about to lose a patient. Something funny, though, about those faces—Milo’s all pinched and dark, his little mouth puckered up like a hole in something. A spoiled child about to throw a tantrum. And given the power-lifter’s body that went with the face, Ike was able to take a certain comfort in his distance from it. Hound didn’t look angry. He looked something else, worried perhaps, or maybe even scared. But Ike was puzzled, in a curious and detached sort of way, that he should be the object of such concern. And then, and it was the last detail he would remember, he saw that they were not really looking into his face, but rather at his shoulder, at the tattoo that had come snaking out from beneath his rolled-up sleeve. And then Milo reached down—small thick fingers like pegs of iron, cold on Ike’s skin, and tore away the rest of the shirt so that they might have a look at the whole thing. And apparently they could not dig it. Imagine that. Ike smiled into Milo’s pouting mouth. He smiled into Hound Adams’s fear. Harley-Fuckin’-Davidson. The faces went away.
41
He thought there was a movie, though it might have been a dream. When he opened his eyes for the first time after getting the drug, the first thing he saw was fire. One fire was almost directly in front of him, others at either side, and there were more lights above the flames—different, white holes burning out of the night, hurting his eyes. And music, a kind of dull rhythmic drumming like the beat of his own heart and above that a thin, reedy wail. It was too much, really, to take in all at once. He felt sick and disoriented, lost amid the motion and noise—everything pulsing and swaying in time to that slow heartbeat rhythm. He closed his eyes once more and a light breeze kissed his face. The smoke of the fires hung on the breeze and burned behind his closed lids. Also on the breeze were the scents of brush and sage together with the damp rotting odor of a distant shoreline—and then something else as well, the heavy scent of incense rising with the smoke, growing quickly, heavier and sweeter, until it had blotted out all the others and clung to the night in an overpowering way. He felt on the verge of nausea and he opened his eyes.
There was a pole near each fire and from each pole an animal hung butchered. Above the fire nearest him he could make out light-colored fur matted with blood, black jaws and white teeth, a dark tongue. There was more blood on the pole. He looked away. He was seeing more now, taking more in, but it was like he was doing it all in slow motion—in time to that strange slow beat through the odd mix of lights, the smoke and incense. There was also the growing awareness of a dull ache beginning somewhere at the base of his skull, of an incredible weakness in his limbs. He saw that he was seated on the ground and that others were seated around him and that together they formed a great circle. Inside the circle formed by the people there was another circle of stones, and in the center of that circle there was the great stone ring with the flat rock in the middle and he realized for the first time where he was—that place at the edge of the cliff from which he had first glimpsed the house, the spot in which Preston had fought Terry Jacobs, and he remembered there had been a dead animal that night, too—white teeth and black tongue. Dead eyes.
The fires, and he could now see that there were four, burned at what might have been the four points of the compass—one at the edge of the circle nearest the sea, another at the edge closest to the forest, the remaining two at equal distance in between. He also saw that lines had been drawn in the earth. The lines led out, away from the center, connecting the stonework in the middle to the four fires that were between the ring of people and the ring of stones. The lines appeared to have been scratched into the ground, then spattered with blood.
Beyond the ring of people, of which Ike himself was a part, he could just make out the dim shapes of what appeared to be more figures—these, however, wore dark robes and hoods and it was hard to tell how many there were because they blended easily with the night. In places the fire lit patches of flesh—bare chests and faces like his own, but many others had blackened their skin with a dark paste. He looked for the source of the music; it did not seem to be coming from anyone he could see, but rather from the forest, as if the whole place had been wired for sound. At the far side of the clearing there appeared to be some kind of structure to which the brilliant white lights were attached, but the lights made it hard to look in that direction and he could not see much. Nor could he see anything of Milo Trax or Hound Adams. It was at this point, however, that he saw Michelle.
