Jericho Point (31 page)

His shoulders slumped further. ‘‘I tried to talk her into going to the police. Get the identity theft cleared up for you.’’ He gave me a look of regret. ‘‘And that Gaines girl. Clear her name, you know, her memory. Give her father some peace.’’

He threw the shell toward the water. ‘‘It cut no ice.’’

Jesse said, ‘‘Will she talk to an attorney?’’

‘‘She don’t want to talk, period.’’ He squinted at the surf. ‘‘She cut me dead. Acted like I was nothing, invisible, just air.’’

Jesse spread his hands, seemingly searching for something to say. Ricky straightened and his face became thoughtful.

‘‘It’s no secret, I’ve always felt like the Reaper hovered around me. And I thought when my turn came, I was gonna go quick. Wham, out of the blue, you know?’’

Like lightning striking.

‘‘But having Sin treat me this way—it feels like this is the end, and it’s just long, slow fucking agony.’’ He glanced at Jesse. ‘‘I mean, is this how it feels?’’

‘‘What?’’ Jesse said.

‘‘Being near death.’’

Okey dokey. The breeze raised whitecaps on the water. Jesse’s hands lay loose on his knees. He didn’t have a poker face, but he knew how to play it cool. Ricky leaned forward on the surfboard.

‘‘I know plenty of guys who’ve gone. And that’s the thing—they’re gone, so they can’t describe it.’’ He calmed. ‘‘But you survived. You can tell me.’’

Jesse remained chilled. ‘‘The void. All around, calling you into it. Yeah.’’

Ricky drew a slow breath, and let it out. From the intense look on his face, this was confirmation he’d been seeking for years.

‘‘I won’t give up,’’ Ricky said. ‘‘I’ll talk to her again.’’

‘‘Do that.’’ Jesse gazed at the surf. ‘‘But you can only do so much. She’s an adult.’’

‘‘She’s my daughter. I won’t give up on her. But I’m scared for her, man.’’ He put a hand against his chest. ‘‘My heart’s running a mile a minute just thinking about it.’’

‘‘It’ll be a lot easier for her if she turns herself in,’’ Jesse said.

‘‘Not scared of the law, dude. Scared of
him
.’’

Jesse shifted. ‘‘P.J.?’’

Ricky’s head clocked around. ‘‘Shaun. He has her under a spell.’’

From the cast of Jesse’s mouth, he thought exactly as I did: Ricky had that backward. Sinsa was the sorceress.

Ricky stood up, brushing sand from the sagging seat of his jeans. He rubbed his chest and blinked as though his eyes hurt. This was taking a toll on him.

I stood too. ‘‘I can’t wait any longer. I have to go to the sheriff’s.’’

‘‘I know. I’ll do what I can do.’’ He shrugged. It was a gesture of surrender. ‘‘Sorry about setting off the alarm.’’

‘‘No problem,’’ Jesse said.

‘‘Don’t know what I was thinking, except I saw the surfboard hanging on the wall in the garage and remembered how catching waves used to mellow me out.’’

Jesse tilted his head. ‘‘Know what? Take it.’’

Ricky looked at him with surprise.

‘‘If surfing evens you out, that’s great. It’s yours,’’ Jesse said.

Ricky’s red eyes softened. ‘‘Thanks, man.’’

I said, ‘‘I’ll be at the sheriff’s station in an hour. You and Sinsa can meet me there.’’

‘‘Hope so.’’ He picked up the board. Putting it under his arm, he trudged off around the side of the house.

Jesse exhaled. ‘‘Jesus.’’ He shook his head and reached for the wheelchair. ‘‘He’s in a bad place.’’

‘‘No kidding.’’

‘‘Sinsa’s turned out worse than his harshest lyrics. Jimsonweed’s darkest hits come to life.’’ He hoisted himself up.

‘‘What happened?’’ I said.

‘‘He came looking for us. Did you tell him you were here?’’

‘‘I told him I was going to talk to you.’’

‘‘He jumped to conclusions.’’ He turned toward the house, and the sun caught his eyes. ‘‘You came tearing around the corner. What did you expect to find?’’

‘‘I don’t know.’’ But I did. ‘‘Trouble.’’

He gave me the full-blown Look, dry as bone. ‘‘Supergirl to the rescue. Sling off, fists up, ready to rock.’’ He pushed toward the patio doors. ‘‘Welcome back.’’

Flushing with embarrassment, I followed him inside. On the kitchen table lay something new: his Glock.

‘‘You got it,’’ I said.

‘‘Yup.’’

I knew Jesse could defend himself. He was fine. I swallowed my discomfiture.

‘‘You know about P.J.?’’ I said.

‘‘I wish I didn’t.’’ He found his keys. ‘‘I don’t trust Sinsa. We don’t know what she might do. You should get to the sheriff’s asap.’’

‘‘Sure.’’ I watched him. ‘‘You’re coming, right?’’

‘‘Gotta wait for the cops. I’ll catch up.’’

My hand was on the front doorknob when he called to me. ‘‘I didn’t mean it. The Supergirl crack.’’

He was near the table, with the sun shining off his hair, his face tired.

‘‘I know,’’ I said.

‘‘It’s great to see the fight in you again.’’

I walked back across the house and kissed him. ‘‘Call me.’’

Outside, I turned the Explorer around on the driveway. The Monterey pines waltzed in the breeze. Backing up, I checked over my shoulder that I was clear of Jesse’s car, and stopped. The Mustang had a For Sale sign in the back window.

I’ll be damned. He was getting rid of it. I’d gotten through to him.

Feeling relieved, I pulled out. This time I slowed and looked both ways before crossing the railroad tracks. The mountains pushed toward an azure sky. I worked my injured shoulder back and forth. Even without the sling, the pain had receded to a background ache. I was mending.

Accelerating onto the freeway, I turned on the radio. Heard Mary Chapin Carpenter singing ‘‘Jubilee.’’ She sounded tender and sad, wishing for her lover to find release, to leave pain behind like wreckage in the dust. The piano was spare, the guitar an embrace. A Gaelic flute wound through the song like heartache itself.

Letting go of the wrongs that have been inflicted on us—how do we do that?

High overhead, cirrus clouds streaked the sky. A flock of sparrows flew in front of me, swooping up to meet the blue.

The black wing sheared across my thoughts. The sky seemed to splinter.

The Explorer veered right, across the lane onto the shoulder. The tires shuddered onto the dirt. I yanked it back onto the asphalt. My throat was dry, my head pounding.

Jesse wasn’t letting go of the wrong. He was just letting go.

Preparing to leave the pain behind. Giving Luke his audio player, with the music he’d taken months to program. Giving Ricky his surfboard. Selling his car.

Talking about death.

Saying he was glad that I felt stronger and could take care of myself. I jammed the pedal down, looking for an exit off the freeway. He thought I didn’t need his help anymore. He could let go.
The void. All around, calling you into it.

Tears stung my eyes. God. I swung into the fast lane. The car in front of me was dawdling. I flashed my lights. He pulled over and I barreled past. The exit, I needed the exit. I could no longer hear the music, only the blood rushing in my ears. I could see the black specter fracturing the world. I could see Jesse’s calm face. I could see the sun glinting off the ocean behind him. Glinting off the windows. Off his infinitely distant blue eyes.

Off the gun.

Sinsa stood by the window overlooking the driveway. Thinking,
Please
. She was brushing her hair slowly, pulling the bristles through the thick rain of black. She was watching for Ricky’s car to come back.

Please. It had been over an hour. Daddy, please come back.

Was he just going to leave her here? He couldn’t. She worried her hair with the brush.

If he didn’t come back soon, it would mean something had happened to him. Out on the road, like a car crash. If his vision got blurred, or he fainted. That couldn’t happen. She had to see him. They weren’t done.

He was upset, but how upset? Enough to drive off and leave her here alone. But upset enough to mess up his afternoon schedule? It was after four. Four p.m. meant a hot fudge sundae while he watched
Magnum, P.I.
He never missed
Magnum
. Then he hit the sauna.

Where the fuck was he?

She set down the brush. If he didn’t come back soon, it meant she had miscalculated. The timing, and maybe the dosage.

She glanced at the table. Next to the brush, the Baggie still had a good supply of seeds. She could give him another cup of tea. The first cup hadn’t been scientific. Just her best guess about what would unbalance him. Shaun always used a few seeds at a time, to dry up the sweats. She’d given Ricky ten times that. But if she overdosed him with the first brew, he might not make it back.

She picked up the Baggie. Devil’s Trumpet, they called it. Mad Apple. Inferno, Locoweed, Zombie. Nightshade, Green Dragon.
Datura stramonium
. Jimsonweed.

Ask your doctor before ingesting. All parts are toxic.

Come back, Daddy. We’re not finished.

Racing along the road toward Jesse’s house, slamming over potholes, I steered with one hand and thumbed the phone with the other. Grabbing a look at the display, and back at the road.

‘‘Oh, Christ.’’

At the railroad crossing bells were clanging, lights flashing, and the gate was swinging down. A hundred yards up the track, a freight train steamed toward me.

I had to get across. Shit, had to. I could.

No.

I hit the brake with everything I had. The tires shrieked. The antilock brakes kicked on and the steering wheel chattered in my hands. A horn blared from the train. They had to see me laying rubber. I jammed the brake to the firewall and the Explorer stopped, snapping my head forward. The gate came down. On the hood. Loud as hell, the train thundered past.

And past, and past. A dozen cars. Two dozen. Come on, come on. I dialed Jesse’s number. Got the machine. Tried his cell. Off.

The train clattered by, thirty cars, thirty-five, and I still couldn’t see the end of it. I phoned information and asked for Sam Rosenberg, Jesse’s neighbor. He was unlisted. I couldn’t do anything. But maybe— maybe—the sheriff’s deputies had already arrived at Jesse’s house to check out the alarm call.

Boxcars rattled past. I wrung my hands on the steering wheel.

I’d been blind. I’d told Jesse he was rash, tried to slap him with the fact of his own recklessness, but I hadn’t seen the depth of his despair. Instead, I’d misbehaved. I’d aligned myself with another man, right in his face. And when we needed to talk, I hid from it.

I prayed. God, not this. Stop this from happening. I’ll do anything you want. You can have me. Just stop this.

In the rearview mirror I saw a car pull up behind me. It was a sheriff’s cruiser.

Standing in the garage, Sinsa heard Ricky’s car coming up the driveway. Finally. She put down the garage door, concealing the BMW four-by-four inside, and ran toward the house before Ricky drove around the corner. Sprinting toward the back door. Her silver bracelets rang on her wrists.

Inside. The maid had gone for the day. The house was empty.

Ricky would think.

She ran to the living room, where the Georgia O’Keeffe painting of jimsonweed hung above the mantel.

‘‘He’s here,’’ she called.

She peeked out the front window.

Yeah. He was out of the car. He was rubbing his eyes. Was that a fucking
surfboard
in the backseat? Whatever. He didn’t look so hot.

But he would, in just a few minutes. Real, real hot.

Behind me at the railroad crossing, the sheriff’s deputy was talking into his radio, doubtless running my tags for wants and warrants before coming to question me about why I’d nearly crashed into a Southern Pacific locomotive. The train finally cleared the crossing. The lights and bells shut off. The gate lifted from the hood of the Explorer. I gunned it across the tracks.

In the mirror, I caught the cruiser’s lights flashing on. Come on, then. Let’s go.

I was there in under a minute. The front door cracked against the wall when I threw it open.

‘‘Jesse.’’

All I heard in reply were my boots echoing on the hardwood floor. Outside the deputy pulled up, lights blazing. I called Jesse’s name again. I ran to the windows. There was no sign of him outside on the beach.

A rap on the open door with a nightstick. ‘‘Ma’am? Step outside, please.’’

Jesse was gone. I spun around, looking at the kitchen table. So was the gun.

Sinsa charged toward the back of the house, tripping over her heavy boots, nearly falling. She caught herself and hurried to the kitchen. Was that an omen—a foreshadowing? Telling her she could trip up?

No. No doubts. She couldn’t go back now. She had already thrown the dice. In the kitchen she double-checked. The note, everything.

She heard the front door open. Out of time. She raced to the gym. She saw Shaun inside, facing the wall of mirrors, pointing a finger at his reflection.

He cocked his head to one side. ‘‘What’s that I see under your armpits, Ricky . . . sweat?’’

She rushed in. ‘‘He’s here.’’

He stared at himself. ‘‘They say success is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.’’

‘‘You hear? This is it.’’

‘‘So here’s to success, shithead.’’ He gave his reflection the finger.

‘‘Shaun, look at me.’’ She grabbed his arm. ‘‘Forget rehearsing the punch line. You have to do this cold.’’

‘‘Relax. I’m golden.’’ He dropped his hands, rolled his head, and shook his shoulders to loosen up. ‘‘I don’t need a run-through.’’

‘‘You sure? ’Cause if you have any doubt, if you think it might get fucked up, we call it off.’’

‘‘It’s improv. I rule at improv.’’ He took a cleansing breath. ‘‘P.J.’s the fuckup, not me.’’

She looked around at the exercise bike, the treadmill, the weight bench. Props. The only thing Ricky ever touched in here was the sauna. She was counting on that.