Their Wildest Dreams, page 30
Turbo backed away, dragging Mackie with him. But there was nowhere to go, the wall just a step or two away. Turbo wasn’t as tall as Mackie, so not much of him showed behind her. In front of her, though, was that forearm over her throat, and his whole arm up to the shoulder. What had Loeb gotten in woodlot management? A-minus. He jabbed the saw at Turbo’s biceps. Turbo yanked his arm away, all his normal grace and fluidity gone, let Mackie go, kicking her forward.
Mackie lost her balance, fell against Loeb. He got the chainsaw up and out of the way, slicing off a lock of her hair— he saw it clearly, just hanging in space for a moment— and then, losing his own balance, threw the saw with both hands, like a basketball player keeping the ball inbounds, over Mackie’s head, right at Turbo.
Turbo ducked. The saw hit the wall behind him, conked out. In the silence that followed, everything seemed finally to slow down. There should have been plenty of time for Turbo, Turbo of all people, to avoid the saw, now falling, to shift just a few inches. But because of the sudden silence, or lack of precedent, or mental overload, he did not. It hit him on the head, the heavy base part, containing the motor and fuel tank. He slumped to the floor, glasses knocked off, eyelids fluttering. Loeb jumped up, grabbed the saw, started it up in one rip, hit the trigger, held it inches from Turbo’s throat. Turbo’s eyes cleared. They got the picture.
There was more duct tape on the roll, enough to wrap two Turbos. They wrapped the one they had— Loeb feeling strangely high at the moment; Timothy Bolt had never done better— Mackie doing the wrapping, he himself standing by, chainsaw on idle. Mackie’s mouth had stopped bleeding. Her lips moved. Was she saying something to him?
“What?”
She raised her voice over the saw. “I thought you were going to kill me.”
“We were lucky,” Loeb shouted. “Maple sugar processing was my first choice.”
“What?”
“It was full,” he told her, now at the top of his lungs. “I had to settle for woodlot management.”
“What?”
They left Turbo wrapped up in the living room, went into the hall. He was visible from there, eyes blank, as though he’d gone into deep meditation. Loeb hung on to the chainsaw, now off. The saw— a cliché for sure, yet he sensed a connectedness here in real life, at once symbolic and deadly, a connectedness that was missing from his work: a woman changes the locks on her house; her ex-husband breaks in using a powerful tool; and loses control of it to another man. Same tool: but the new man has more success with it; at least for now.
TWENTY-NINE
“We’re going to Mexico?” Lianne said.
“That’s where the pictures are— at this buddy of mine’s,” said Dane. “You speak Spanish?”
“No.”
Dane opened the window, said, “Howdy.”
The Mexican border guard said: “Me gusta tu camión.”
“Pertenece al parque,” Dane said.
The border guard said: “Cuándo lo van abrir?”
“Algunos meses,” Dane told him.
“Va haber una montaña rusa?” said the guard.
“Hell, yes,” said Dane.
“Fantástico,” said the border guard. His eyes went to Lianne. “Quién es esa chica?”
“Solo otra bailadora,” said Dane.
The border guard waved them through.
Dane drove through the junky tourist part, past the junky factory part, out into the desert. “Been to Mexico much?”
“A few times,” said Lianne, which was true. The part about not speaking Spanish wasn’t quite as true. She didn’t consider herself a speaker, but she was at the top of her class in AP Spanish and had understood every word, even the expression montaña rusa— Russian mountain, Spanish for roller coaster. Just that last part confused her: Who’s the girl? Just another dancer. Some kind of slang? Asking about it now would be embarrassing, and what was the point of pissing Dane off? She wanted those pictures.
“Cool place to live if you’ve got money,” Dane said. The sun glared on the windshield, and on bright things here and there in the distance. Lianne spotted a dark-green line of palo verde, knew it followed a dry wash, the way Jimmy had taught her. She could feel him, right beside her, sharing her thoughts. That wasn’t going to stop, was it? I’ve been so dumb, Jimmy.
“What was that?” said Dane.
“I didn’t say anything.” But had she? That was weird. Dane shot her a funny look. She remembered how Jimmy had treated him, almost with contempt. Dane was nothing to worry about, not with Jimmy looking out for her.
“But if you don’t have money, nothing sucks worse,” Dane said. “Than living in Mexico, I’m talking about. Maybe that’s what Jimmy wanted, to set himself up nice and pretty south of the border.”
“No.”
He glanced over again. “That sounds kind of definite.”
“Yeah.”
“Makes me think you two did do some talking about the money after all,” Dane said.
“I told you, Dane— he mentioned wanting his own ranch once or twice. That was it.” Cielo Azul. It was everywhere today, horizon to horizon. Without hardly trying, she could see the outline of his face in all that blue. As long as there was blue sky, she’d have Jimmy. She started crying again, but silently, so Dane couldn’t hear, and turned her face to the side window, so he couldn’t see. They were climbing a long hill, zooming at that moment past a claptrappity truck jam-packed with people, so close together it must have been unbearable. A tiny old Indian woman wedged in the back looked right at her, saw those tears; Lianne could tell from a slight upward movement of her eyebrow, still jet-black although her hair was white; one of those expressions of concern.
“There’s an example,” said Dane. “Might as well be animals.”
At the top of the hill, a two-humped mountain came into view. She’d seen it before, but from the other side, the American side.
Can we climb up there, Jimmy?
That’s Mexico.
So?
One day, maybe.
Dane turned onto a dirt road that wound toward the two-humped mountain.
“You’ll see the house in a few minutes or so,” he said.
“That white dot?”
“You got good eyes,” said Dane.
The white dot slowly grew. This was the day: she was finally climbing the two-humped mountain, doing it for both of them. And what better place to seek those childhood pictures; as though she were on a quest. They went up and up on switchbacks, then rounded a bluff, caught the first glimpse of the wide plain that must have stretched into Arizona, although she couldn’t be sure: Jimmy hadn’t finished teaching her directions.
A cliff rose on their right, blocking the view. They passed a dark opening in its side.
“A mine?” Lianne said.
“You could say that,” said Dane.
“What sort of mine?”
“Kind of a gold mine.”
Lianne saw shadowy people moving around inside.
“They’re still working it?”
“Be working that mine forever,” Dane said.
Dane parked beside a red Cadillac, same color as the truck and just as shiny new, except for some dents in the rear, and one taillight hanging loose. At the top of a marble staircase rose a white mansion with columns and statues, one of those homes of the rich and famous.
“Your buddy lives here?”
“Yup.”
They climbed the stairs, crossed a terrace bordering a swimming pool that reminded her of the weekend school trip to San Simeon. Greek statues stood at three corners of the pool; at the fourth lay only the head of a statue, tipped on its side. An on-purpose effect, maybe? It made her think of that poem, “Ozymandias”; pretty cool.
“In here,” said Dane, opening a sliding door to the house. He led Lianne into what looked like the office of someone important: dark wooden desk, huge and heavy, with nothing on it; lots of leather furniture; all kinds of electronic equipment, including a video camera on a tripod.
“Take a seat,” Dane said.
“Where are the pictures?” said Lianne.
“I’ll go get ’em,” Dane said. “Be right back.”
Dane went out another door; she heard the squeak of his sneakers on a tile floor before it closed. She sat on a leather couch. A flat-screen TV on the opposite wall was tuned silently to one of those financial channels. Lianne watched the stock prices scroll by. The Dow was down eighty-seven points; then ninety-nine. Two talking heads talked at the same time. Lianne heard a voice call out, somewhere in the house.
She got up. This was taking a long time. She wanted to go home, have her mom around. Maybe she should give her a call. Lianne went to the desk, picked up the phone. A man was already on the line. He said: “. . . no writer, but the former husband, of no good use. What is your mental thinking when you—”
A second man on the line interrupted: “What was that?”
Lianne hung up the phone, gently, like an object easily broken. The first man had sounded angry about something. He also had a funny accent. These people, the Russian guy, Dane, the conglomerate, they’re kind of criminals, right? Even though they own a bank.
Her glance touched on the desk. Was it possible the pictures were waiting right here? Lianne opened the top drawer: empty, except for a pint of vodka and a gun. She closed the drawer, went to the window.
Dane and a big platinum-haired man appeared on an upstairs gallery in the opposite wing of the house. They walked quickly to a curving outdoor staircase, came quickly down. The sun glittered on the platinum-haired man’s belt buckle. Lianne didn’t like how fast they were moving. What if Jimmy’s pictures weren’t even here? She backed away from the window. There were two ways out— the door to the terrace, too late; and the door that Dane had gone through, further into the house. She opened that one. A man stood on the other side. He wore a red T-shirt with ALL-AMERICAN AMUSEMENTS, INC. on the front, and had a shotgun in his hands.
Nicholas Loeb, writer of mysteries, although Mackie had never heard of him, stood in her front hall, his purpose unclear. All she knew was that he’d saved her from Turbo. “I guess I should apologize,” she said.
“For what?”
“What I did to you.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Loeb said.
“You should do something about those cuts.”
“I’m fine.”
Mackie went into the bathroom, returned with hydrogen peroxide. “Turn around,” she said.
He turned. Over his shoulder, Mackie saw Turbo, still on the living-room floor, still in a trance. She dabbed hydrogen peroxide on Loeb’s back. He had a nice back, cool to her touch. His body was shaking a little, and so was hers.
“Is it safe to try again?” he said.
“Try what?”
“Asking if you knew Jimmy Marz.”
His back tensed slightly under her fingers; did he really think she’d knock him out again? “The answer’s no,” she said.
“You just happened to be in the bank,” Loeb said.
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“In what way?” He faced her.
Mackie gave him a long look. What did she know about him? Almost nothing. And she remembered Sola’s remark: Men are pretty sick— you must know that by now. Was she starting to believe it?
“We probably don’t have time for a lot of deep thinking,” he said.
Mackie knew that, could sense Samsonov out there, restless and seeking. She made a decision, based on very little, other than that word we. “I had a motive. Now that I know who owns the bank, it even makes sense.”
“You’re losing me already,” Loeb said.
“Do you believe in cosmic deals?” Mackie said. This one even came with its own music: “When Rita Leaves.”
“What are those?” Loeb said.
“Fate or God or something ends up punishing you for everything you get,” Mackie said.
“That’s crazy talk,” said Loeb. He sounded angry. “People do all the punishing.”
That anger, so sudden and unexpected, snapped her out of it, knocked her off that wretched self-pitying track.
“Tell me about this motive,” he said.
Mackie told Loeb about the motive, told him that, and everything else— beginning with the collapse of Buena Vida and ending with the disappearance of Lianne, two events that suddenly seemed directly connected. That wasn’t self-pity or even self-blame: just a fact. The expression in his eyes changed as she told the story. Eager, sympathetic, into it: she would have had trouble describing the change in words; all she knew was it made telling him a little easier.
“Go over the part about the ranch,” he said. “Jimmy and Lianne. Is that where he lived?”
“I don’t know. I tried to find out, but Dane was there.”
“Dane?”
“He works for Samsonov, but it seemed like a wake with all the ranch people, and he was part of it.”
“We’ll have to risk it,” he said. “The ranch is our best bet.”
“You think she’s there?”
“Doesn’t it make sense, if that’s where they were together?” he said. “But you’re the one who knows her.”
Mackie started crying then, a quick burst, stifled right away. “Oh, but I don’t,” she said, which was worst of all. She reached into her pocket, gave him Lianne’s letter.
Reading it seemed to take him just a second or two. “Let’s go,” he said, handing back the letter.
Their eyes met. “You don’t have to do this,” she said.
He glanced at Turbo. “Too late,” he said.
Loeb backed his pickup into the garage. They carried Turbo through the kitchen doorway, lifted him onto the bed of the truck. He didn’t resist at all, didn’t even look at them.
“Want some water?” Loeb said to him.
No response. Loeb closed the lid.
“What are we going to do with him?” Mackie said.
“He’s our insurance,” said Loeb.
They drove out of town, Loeb following Mackie’s directions. On an empty stretch of two-lane highway, mountains in the distance, a pickup flashed by the other way, the couple in the front close together, woman’s head on the driver’s shoulder— but otherwise like them— he shirtless, she in a baseball cap. That feeling of belonging out here hit him again. He noticed his headache was gone.
“What’s that?” he said. “By those bushes.”
“Javelina,” said Mackie. “A kind of pig.”
Loeb, who cared nothing about animals, couldn’t take his eyes off it.
The road curved up through a line of hills, Loeb slowing down behind a tanker truck with lettering on the back: PRIVATE SPRING OWNERS— WE PAY TOP $ FOR H2O. Loeb passed it as they came to the top. To the south lay an endless view, mirages shimmering here and there, everything else a motionless silver-gray under an empty sky. Loeb felt his insignificance, and liked it. He started down the other side.
“Do you think she saw me?” Mackie said.
Loeb knew who she meant. “Couldn’t have. She comes in after you were gone.”
“What was the expression on her face?”
“I couldn’t really tell. She just kind of froze, then backed out. She could have been just another customer.”
“What was she doing there?”
“Maybe driving the getaway car.”
“She doesn’t have her license.”
There was a pause. Then she started laughing. Loeb turned to her. Her eyes were all mixed up, amused and full of pain at the same time. He thought about putting his hand on her knee, just in a comforting way, was still going back and forth on it when flashing lights appeared in the rearview mirror.
“Oh, God,” Mackie said; and she put her hand on his knee, nails digging in. Loeb pulled over. Mackie glanced back. “It’s just the Border Patrol,” she said, her grip relaxing before she took her hand away. Loeb realized she didn’t know the drill.
