Bad Things (34 page)

 

“Damn!” Inside Dakota O'Keefe's apartment, the phone began to ring, and Dakota, still two doors away, broke into a trot. “Damn!” he cried again as one of his black stiletto heels caught in an old cigarette burn in the hall carpeting. He regained his balance and raced to the door, digging frantically through his purse for the keys and swearing steadily now because he'd counted six rings, and that meant Lil had left the machine off. Again. At last he found the key, stuck it in the dead bolt, found out she hadn't bothered locking it, and, thoroughly pissed, tried the knob. The door swung open.
Magil would forget her own tits if they weren't attached!

By the time he tackled the receiver, it was halfway through the tenth ring. Though it was unlikely the call would come at seven in the morning, he had his fingers crossed for a plum part in a new show. If he lost it because of a missed call, he'd string Lil up alive. By those firmly attached tits.

“Hello?” He tried not to pant.

“Dakota, thank God.”

“Piper?” he asked, disappointed and pleased at the same time. “Is that you? You sound like shit.”

“Is Shelly there?”

“Shelly? Why would Shelly be here?”

There was a pause. “Because she's not
here,
Dakota.”

“She ran away?”

“I don't know, I think so, but it doesn't make sense. She seemed happy with the move and she was happy last night and now she's gone, and God, Dakota, there's blood on her sheets—”

“Calm down, Piper,” Dakota interrupted. “You're talking like a machine gun. Get a grip.”

“Yeah, yeah—”

“How much blood?”

“A little.”

“Is her car gone?”

“Yes.”

“Then she probably wasn't taken by force. Is that what you thought?”

“Y—No. I don't know. She told me she was happy we'd moved, and last night she came to see me. She wanted to go to a party and I said yes and she kissed me good night and now she's gone and it doesn't make sense—”

“Take a deep breath, Ricky. Where's the blood?”

Rick's voice shook. “On her pillow and wiped on the sheet. It wasn't much, but it's still blood and she's gone—”

“A nosebleed, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“Piper, she's hardly ever home, right?”

“But she never gets up early on the weekend.”

“Does she tell you every time she goes somewhere?”

“No, but—”

“Calm down. Have you called her friends?”

“Yes. No one's seen her.”

“And you probably made a lot of enemies waking them all up, right, Piper?”

No reply.

“Does she have a boyfriend?”

“What are you saying?”

“Lust makes people do strange things, Piper.”

“She wouldn't—”

“Maybe, maybe not, but I think you'd better calm down and give her a chance to come home. It's probably nothing, Piper. Why are you so nervous? You're acting weird, Rick. What gives?”

Piper didn't answer for a long time, and when he finally spoke, there was a different kind of waver in his voice. “The past dies hard, Dakota.”

“That's very poetic,” he said with brusqueness he didn't feel. “But what the hell does it mean?”

“It means you're right.” Rick's voice sounded normal now. “It's probably nothing. I was so tired last night that I didn't hear half of what she said. It's probably something like cheerleading practice. But if it's a boy, once I get her home safely, I'll skin her alive.”

“Okay, good,” Dakota said, relieved that Piper's voice sounded nearly normal. “Now, how long has she been missing?”

“I, ah, I don't know exactly. She went to bed last night around eleven. That's the last time I saw her.”

“So it's been about eight hours. How long ago did you find out she was gone?”

“An hour.”

“If I hear from her, I'll call you. But I think she'll show up, safe and sound. Call me the minute she does, but let the phone ring a long time. I'm just going to bed, and Lil's not here.” He paused. “How's my sister?”

“Wonderful.”

“Good. Give her a call. She'll calm you down.”

“I will. Thanks, Dakota.”

“No problem.” He paused. “Rick? Don't go having a nervous breakdown.”

“I'll be fine.”

Dakota hung up the phone, and as he got ready for bed, he wondered if Rick Piper wasn't already in the middle of a breakdown.

 

 

Two hours later, someone started banging on the door. Dakota tried to ignore it, but the idiot wouldn't go away. Finally, ready to curse out a Mormon missionary or a magazine salesman, Dakota dragged himself to the door and opened it. “What the hell—” he began, then stopped, shocked to see Shelly Piper. There was a bruised red swelling on the side of her face, and she had a suitcase in her hand.

“What happened?” he cried as he pulled her into the apartment. “Give me the bag, sit down. Did someone hit you?”

She looked up at him, her lip starting to tremble.

“Daddy,” she said.

“What?”

“He hit me. He, he tried . . .” She fell into Dakota's arms and cried for at least half an hour before she told him what had happened.

Dakota couldn't believe what he was hearing. He'd known Rick Piper for nearly five years, and he'd always seemed sweet and slightly sad, too intense for his own good, a worrywart, but a hell of a good father. Cody adored the ground he walked on, and even at her worst, Shelly couldn't find anything very awful to say about him. And now this. Dakota studied Shelly's face. She was telling him the truth as she saw it; of that, he was certain. Something had happened, but what?

He had a gift for seeing beyond the packaging into the product. Audrey's husband, for instance; he'd had him pegged from day one. Beneath the Armani suits, twinkly eyes and all, he knew the man was rotten. He'd sensed this about other people, men and women both, and he'd never been wrong. But though there was something undeniably unusual about Piper, something he couldn't quite pinpoint, he sensed none of the corruptness he'd detected in those other people, and he couldn't believe that Rick was capable of what his daughter alleged. But why would she lie?

“Shelly, honey, are you sure it was your dad? Was it dark?”

“The night-light was on.”

“So it was almost dark?”

“Kind of. But it looked like him, and sounded like him. He looked crazy.”

Don't have a nervous breakdown.
That's what he'd said to Rick two hours ago. “Shelly, has your dad been acting funny lately?”

She shook her head. “No. We've been getting along great, and he and Audrey are dating a lot. She's nice.” For a moment her voice was normal, then reality—or unreality—set in again. “I mean, he wasn't acting weird or anything.” She touched her face, tears threatening.

“Shel, I think we have to solve this now.”

“I don't want to go back. I don't want to see him.”

“We have to. Tell you what. We'll relax today, then head for L.A. first thing in the morning. If I drive your car and drop you off at a friend's, whatever you want, will that be okay? Then I'll go see your dad. If he's responsible for the attack on you, he needs help.”

That undefinable thing about Piper, was it mental illness? O'Keefe wondered after Shelly went into the other room to nap. Certainly some of the things he'd spilled about his childhood—those jack-off things he said he could still see, the sex-crazed aunt, finding his parents murdered . . . Dakota shook his head . . . and that evil twin, for Christ's sake—any one of those things could make for a little instability. Or a lot.
You quiet types, we just never know what you're up to.
How many times had he teased Piper with that line?

For a brief instant it occurred to Dakota that perhaps Rick Piper didn't have a twin brother, that Rick's brother was an alternate personality . . . “No,” he said aloud. Who was he going to believe? A man who'd become his best friend or the guy's teenage daughter, who wasn't above manipulation to get what she wanted? He knew that from experience.

Neither, he decided. Shelly wasn't faking, and Rick was stable until proven otherwise. Dakota would do nothing until he saw him in person, not even tell Audrey. The thought of his sister made his heart ache a little: More for her sake than any other reason, he hoped Rick was in the clear. Audrey was falling for him hard, she'd confided, and he wanted her to be happy. For a moment he considered warning her, but decided against it: She'd told him she'd be out of town until tomorrow, attending a small convention. She'd be safe, if there was anything to be safe from.

Clearing his throat, he picked up the phone and called in a couple favors, which resulted in a long overdue week's vacation. Next, he swallowed his nervousness and dialed Piper's number.

Rick answered on the second ring.

“She's here,” Dakota said lightly, determined not to show his hand.

“Thank God.” The immense relief in Piper's voice gave him hope. “Dakota, do you know why she ran away?”

“All I know is that she's here,” Dakota said slowly. “Something frightened her last night.”

“Frightened her. What?”

“I don't know,” he lied, “but she's not crazy about coming home. She doesn't want to be in the house. I told her I'd drive her back and drop her at a friend's house.”

“Which one?”

“I don't know yet. Listen, I'll see what else I can get out of her on the ride.” He paused. “She has a bruise on her cheek. It's pretty nasty.” He waited for the reaction.

“She's hurt? My God, how? Maybe you should take her to the doctor. Let me give you the insurance number.”

If he hurt her,
Dakota wondered,
would he want her to be seen by a physician?

“It's not that bad. Just a bruise,” he said. “Rick, maybe you should check around the house, make sure all your windows and doors are bolted.”

“Why? Did she—”

“She won't talk,” he lied again. “But I get the impression someone broke into her room.”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” Rick said with sudden firmness.

“It wouldn't?”

“Jade put her stuffed poodles in Shelly's room one night, scared the hell out of her.”

Shelly had told Dakota that story, and now it made him suspect that the old bat was somehow involved in things. Shelly disliked Jade, but evidently the old lady absolutely despised the girl.
She's jealous of her youth.
Dakota thought. “Maybe it
is
Jade's doing,” he said. “Anyway, I've been wanting to visit you, Piper, and I've got a week's vacation, so I'll see you tomorrow.” He hesitated. “I'll be there for Halloween. Do you have a costume or would you like me to bring you one? You'd make a gorgeous Betty Boop.”

“I'll pass on the costume, O'Keefe; I'm not much on Halloween.” A thrum of tension belied the resignation in his voice. “Just bring me my daughter. Please.”

 

Dakota O'Keefe was fine until he dropped Shelly off at Leanne Larson's house in San Antonio Heights, but as he drove into Rick's neighborhood, he began to sweat and wish he'd remembered his bottle of Di-Gels. Shelly hadn't said much on the ride in, except to reiterate that she couldn't believe what happened. It had been a frustrating conversation because, although she saw some merit in blaming Jade, she rightly pointed out that her attacker was a man.

Almost immediately after dropping her off, he got lost on the curvy streets and screeched to a halt at the curb. After consulting the map, he took off again.
Slow,
he told himself,
slow down.
The trip from Vegas to Santo Verde had been accomplished in just under three and a half hours, a new record for him and, he sincerely hoped, for Shelly's Bug. They'd stopped just once, at the rest stop east of Madelyn, and that had been a disaster because he was so accustomed to wearing drag that he'd walked into the ladies' room wigless and makeupless, dressed in tight jeans and a boxy bomber jacket that hid his bosom. Without the accoutrements of femininity, his strong chin and broad shoulders—not to mention the proud bulge of his one-eyed trouser weasel—betrayed his sexual roots all too easily.

A woman in a tacky plaid jumpsuit had stared at him, then frantically whispered something through the crack between the door and frame of the nearest stall. Thinking fast, Dakota unzipped his jacket, putting his thirty-eights on display, and groaned, “My bra is killing me.” After that, he was left to pee in peace.

Leak taken, he'd paused long enough in front of the metal mirror to fluff his brown hair into a less masculine style and apply a trace of lipstick and eyeliner. Back in the car, he took time to consult the map, trying to memorize the off-ramps and intersections he'd need to find, because he wasn't too sure Shelly's directions were good and he didn't want to talk to Piper again until they came face-to-face.

He didn't really want to talk to him at all before he had a chance to figure out what—if anything—was really going on between Piper and his daughter.
Either Shelly's on drugs or Rick's lost it,
he told himself. He didn't want to believe either theory.

“Damn!” Again he pulled over and dragged out the map. Santo fucking Verde was made up of a series of illogical, curvy streets that made no sense whatsoever.
Too rich for its own good,
he thought, trying to figure out where he was. Via Matanza, where Piper lived, was a twisted little road at the north edge of town, close to the mountains, a stone's throw from the cemetery. Problem was, it was one of a zillion curvy little streets not far from the mountains and the cemetery. The goddamned map looked more like an English hedge maze than a street directory.

Okay,
he told himself as he tossed the unfolded map carelessly over his shoulder,
this is it. I'm going to find it this time.
He shifted gears and started out, turning left instead of right and taking a corkscrew street as opposed to the countercorkscrew.

He passed gnarled pepper trees lining Via Sangre—all
these fucking Spanish names,
he thought, annoyed that he didn't know the meaning.
Via
meant go or way or something. Something like road.
Sangre
sounded like some kind of wine, and he wondered if Via Sangre meant “Go Wine. He could get behind that about now. But he doubted that meaning: By the looks of things, Santo Verde had a proverbial broom up its proverbial ass. Dogs wouldn't dare shit in Santo Verde, and the town must employ half the gardeners in the state. It had to; he'd never seen a place so overflowing with well-coiffed trees and bushes and grass and flowers. Even this time of year.

Maybe it's Spanish for Wino Road,
he told himself as he began to believe he'd taken yet another wrong turn. There were several unofficial Wino Roads in Vegas. “Eureka, baby!” he cried as he approached the bazillionth street sign and read it. “I have found it!”

Via Matanza, at long last. He burned a little rubber rounding the corner, then cruised slowly, watching for Piper's house. The address was 667. Neighbor of the Beast. Before, that seemed funny; now it didn't.
God, Piper, did you really do what Shelly said?
No, Rick would never do such a thing, a thing so bad that Dakota couldn't name it, not even in the privacy of his own head.
If he's ill, he might be able to do it,
his subconscious reminded him.

If he was having a nervous breakdown, if he imagined his brother, or hated his parents?
He found their bodies; he could've killed them . . . Would you question him at all if he weren't dating your sister?

No,
he told himself,
probably not.
But he didn't know if that was true or not, all he knew was that he had been compelled to drive to Santo Verde to find out and that his very lack of instinct about Piper worried him immensely.

There it was, 667, painted black on white on the stone curb in front of the most unusual—and only run-down—yard on the block. You could barely see the house for the trees and bushes. Everything else on the street looked like photos from
Better Homes & Gardens
or
Architectural Digest
with their huge, perfect lawns and landscaping. Free-form topiaries, he noticed, seemed to be the in thing in Santo Verde.

But 667 was a mongrel, and a shaggy one at that. In another neighborhood it might have been presentable, but not here in Beamerland, where all good Republicans go to live and everyone wears Dockers and Izods to play golf on Sundays.

He could see that attempts were being made to fix the place up—the lawn was freshly cut, though not nearly short enough, and only half the trees were pruned. As he drove up the long, long driveway toward the house, he noticed something reflecting sunlight between the trees, and a moment later realized it was Rick's metal statue.

At last the house came into full view, and he realized that its being hidden from the street was probably a major blessing. As Rick had said, it needed paint. It also needed a remodel. The place looked like an eccentricity Edward Gorey would draw.
A lunatic must have built it,
Dakota thought, then remembered that Piper had said as much about his ancestor or grandfather or whichever Piper had built it. Said he was as nutty as a nougat bar. He wondered again if Rick had inherited that trait.

“Hmmph.” Impatiently he downshifted, grinding the gears as he pulled close to the other cars, Piper's Celica and an older Ford pickup. He almost clipped the Celica when be pulled in next to it, even though the driveway in front of the garage was wide enough to hold six or seven cars parked close together. “Shitty driver, O'Keefe,” he muttered. “Shitty.”

A minute later he was contemplating the ugly door on the ugly house. As he knocked on it, he thought it looked like the entry to Quasimodo's closet. A dog barked. He knocked again. More barks. And knocked once more. Yippy little barks, closer now.
Poodles from hell,
he remembered as he started pounding. “Come on, Piper, put your dick away and answer the door!”

As he heard his own words, a chill ran down his spine. “Piper!” he called, angry both at himself and his friend. “Piper, open up!”

Within, the floor creaked beneath footsteps so slow, they hurt. Then a wicked-witch voice called out, “Who's there?”

“A friend of Rick's,” he replied.

After a long moment of silence, the voice asked sharply, “What do you want?” The poodle yelped a sharp coda.

“To see Rick,” he answered, totally pissed. Then he added, more diplomatically, “You must be his aunt Jade. He's told me
so
much about you. He adores you, dear, and I can't wait to meet you.”

That did the trick. He could hear chains being removed, then a bolt slid and the big thumb latch clicked up and down. The door opened an inch or two, and an anxious pink dog nose poked out below. Above, a wicked-witch eye to match the voice peered at him. Then it asked, “What the fuck are you?”

“I'm a Vegas show girl, Jade, dear. Ricky's best friend.” The door opened wider, barely. Two eyes. The old broad—not as old as he'd expected—was a tall one with puffy skin and full lips held pursed and coated under too much coral lipstick. She might've been a looker, way back when. Still could be if she did something with herself. Nice cheekbones.

“You one of Richard's girlfriends?” she asked suspiciously.

He loved that. “Wish I was,” he told her. “But he just thinks of me as a . . . sibling . . .” He let his voice trail off wistfully.

Jade snorted. “What d'you want?”

Old bitch,
he thought. He could imagine her skulking through the house with a meat cleaver in hand, but he smiled sweetly. “I'm here to see Rick.”

“Why?”

With effort, he held his tongue. “Is he here?”

She harrumphed. “He's in the workshop.”

“Could you direct me, dear?”

“Back of the garage. Crazy good-for-nothing boy, he is.” She looked down at her dog, and her voice changed to a warm, cracking ooze. “He's a bad boy saying bad things about my wittle lovedottie. Calls him names.”

Suddenly the poodle slipped out the door, barked once, then attached itself to Dakota's leg and began humping with a vengeance.

“Shit!” Dakota tried to shake the dog off. “Get off me, you perverted little shit!”

“Don't you talk to my wittle—”

“Get your wittle fucker off me!” he cried, kicking harder. The dog flew off, sailing straight back until it thudded against Jade's leg. Righting itself, it growled at Dakota. Dakota curled his lip and growled right back.

“How dare you!”

Before Dakota could form the perfect response, Jade Ewebean slammed the door in his face.

Clearing his throat, straightening his posture, and regaining his dignity, Dakota turned and walked back to the driveway and up to the garage. He followed the narrow sidewalk around it and suddenly realized that the building behind it, shadowed in trees, was enormous. He continued up the side. “Rick? Where are you? Piper?” he called, not too loudly. From within, he could hear metal on metal, hammering, a high screeching, more hammering. “Piper?” He came to a set of huge closed double doors, the size of garage doors, then saw a normal one, just beyond. The knob turned freely in his grasp. “Piper?” he called again, beginning to push the door open.

The hammering ceased. “Dakota?” Soft, surprised. Then, hopeful, “Dakota? Is that you?”

Heartened, O'Keefe shoved the door the rest of the way. “Piper! My Lord! What in the world are you doing in here?”

Rick stood on a stepladder in front of a large metal
thing.
He wore a welder's mask over his face and hair, tight Levi's, and no shirt. His compact body was looking good, pale skin sheened with sweat, pecs and biceps carved with the weight of the acetelyne torch he held. It was phallic as hell.

“You oughta pose for
Playgirl,
Piper. You look good enough to eat.”

“Get a new line, O'Keefe.” Rick pushed back the mask, set the torch aside, and climbed off the ladder. “Is Shelly with you? Did she tell you anything else?”

“Piper . . .” he began, then stopped, riveted by the look on Rick's face. He saw the pain and didn't know what to say, saw the pain and knew the answer, and for a moment, was so ashamed of himself for ever doubting Piper's honor or motives that he couldn't look him in the eye.
But if he's crazy,
he reminded himself roughly,
he could be guilty . . . If he's crazy, he could be his own evil twin.

“Shelly's okay,” he said. “She's fine.”

Rick took the helmet off and hung it on a hook above a long workbench. “Well, where is she?” he asked eagerly. “Did you drop her off or is she in your car?” He headed toward the door.

Dakota put his hand out and stopped Rick before he could pass. “She's fine, but she's not here.”

“When I get my hands on her, I'm going to . . . to hug her, then I'm going to strangle her, then I'm going to ground her until she's thirty . . .”

“I left her at her girlfriend's house. She'll be perfectly safe there. She's just fine. Now, Piper, calm down and tell me about this.” He gestured at the metal thing. “What is it?”

“Can't you tell?”

Piper sounded disappointed, and Dakota, suddenly realizing that maybe this was something more than a heap of scrap metal, really looked at it for the first time. “My God, Piper,” he blurted. “It's art, isn't it!”

He circled it. “It's a tepee. No? A pyramid?”

“I guess it does look like a pyramid at this point,” Rick said. “It's going to be a windmill for Don Quixote. I was climbing the walls waiting for you to show up. I couldn't just sit still and I couldn't concentrate on the column. So here I am.”

“It's
so
bizarre,” Dakota said, pointing at the pyramid. “Where'd you learn to do this?”

“My dad built cars. He let me play with the scraps.”

“I saw Quixote as I pulled up. He's wonderful. I think you should do a whole series of horses and riders. You should sculpt Wilbur and Mr. Ed next. ‘Willlbur,' he whinnied, ‘what're you doin' back there, Willlbur? Carol's gonna be jealous!' ” He saw by the look on Piper's face that he wasn't improving his frame of mind. “Well, I love your Quixote,” he blithered. “Most people have pink flamingos, or little dwarves.”