Lost Girls (41 page)

I screw the top off the thermos and have to stick my hand in up to the wrist before my fingers hit powder. Pull up a choking dose and bury myself in it, coming up flush headed in the instant, gushing heat. Biting down hard on my lip to make sure something can still be felt.

And then I'm tipping the thermos over and spilling a crystal mountain out over the table, going at it without division or counting lines. Somewhere inside my head a door slams shut but I keep pulling it in, blowing the mountain into shape-shifting dunes. Something splashing into what remains on the table, a thousand transparent explosions. Thoughtless, narcotic tears.

Stop only when the blood starts. A blasting flood I don't attempt to cut off at first, let it stain where it falls. When it finally begins to slow I stanch it by pressing the nostrils together and counting to sixty until they're dried shut.

Then I'm putting on my coat again, stepping out the door and down the hall. Leaving my room, the hotel. I'm aware of this. But it's as though I observe myself from another place. Watch myself creak down the stairs, out the doors, and into the Lincoln, starting it up with a roaring pump of gas. Driving around the corner and taking the road north out of town.

Out beyond the last of the streetlights, beyond any light at all but the shallow range of halogen white that beams out from the front of the car. Arms so heavy, I can barely keep them on the wheel. A sound in my throat I recognize as my own voice. A wordless moan of fear.

Come to the turn for Fireweed Road and I'm slamming on the brakes, taking the corner on the fly, the wheel cranked with the flat of the hand, and make it like I've done it a dozen times. Arms extended before me, steering in jerky corrections. Swerving onto the cusp of a cottage lawn, then wrenching the wheel back to swing the car through the soft gravel at the side of the road. Too goddamn fast. Why am I driving so fast?

''Why are you driving so fast?''

In the car with me. A girl's voice coming from the backseat.

''Yeah, what's the big hurry?''

Another. A girl as well, but different from the first. Throw my eyes up into the rearview mirror but nothing's visible in the plush gloom.

''Who are you?'' I hear myself scratch out from the back of my throat.

''Don't you
know
?''

''Yeah, don't you
know
?''

Giggles. But in this child's sound there's also an edge of something older. A viciousness that cuts through the soundproofed space between us.

The speedometer needle shaking to the top of the circle, to the limit for travel on paved highways. A number far too high for a curving lakeside road at night.

Then movement in the backseat. A whisper of cotton over leather.

''You seem to know the way, don't you?''

Throw myself forward against the wheel, but that doesn't move me any farther from its cold breath. An arm resting on the back of my seat, a mouth that sighs through the crack below the headrest. There're waves of odors now too. The candy-sweet lilac of children's play perfume. Bloated fish washed up onto the mud shore.

''Are we going to get to see her, Dad?''

''Will you show us this time?''

''No!''

The word comes out of me not as a word at all but a canine whimper.

''Because we know who
you
are.''

''Yeah, we know
you
.''

Then it's my scream that blocks out everything else. Through the windshield the headlights flash upon oncoming trees, the wheel spins out of my hands, the car slams its side against their trunks but doesn't stop. Even the screech of folding metal is drowned out by this single, wavering scream.

A pair of frigid hands placed over my eyes.

But in the time it takes another scream to reach my lips there is the crunch of the car's front connecting with something that stops it dead. Then, for what is either a long time or no time at all, there's nothing.

It's still night. The cool air swirls in through the place where the windshield used to be, having already dried the better part of the blood trickling out from the cuts caused by flying glass. A sound in my head like a hornet trapped inside a paper cup and a throbbing behind my ears that expands with every beat of pulse. But I can still see. I can still hear.

As for my legs, I'm not so sure. Twisted around each other so tightly beneath the wheel they won't move on their own. I use my hands to lift one knee up, setting it off to the side as I bend the other in the opposite direction, flinging it out the open door. In a moment blood rushes back down both legs in a painful tingling, and with it the feeling slowly returns.

It's only then that I notice the car is still running. Despite the crushed hood and the steam that swells out from beneath it, the engine sputters on. I could back up out of here and roll home right now. But instead I pull the keys out of the ignition and let it rattle to a stop. And at the same moment as the night's quiet descends upon the wreck, a powerful dizziness floods my head. The space inside the car is suddenly too small, and in an awkward spasm I topple out onto the wet earth.

Mud instantly glued to every inch of me. I'm surprised by its weight, the way it makes lifting each limb a test of endurance. Hands held at the sides of my head, legs wobbly as a glue sniffer's. Stumbling down the path that isn't really a path at all but a zigzagging indentation through the brush. The wind drying the rain, leaves, and blood into a second skin.

Please, please, please.

I ask myself to stop, or think I do. For along with the noise in my head there's now the added sound of the lake coming in hard on the shore, driven by a wind that rips over its surface. Stand on the last rock at the farthest point out into the water, slip my shoes off with my heels, and kick them in. Ahead of me the night rolled out like endless black carpets.

Don't.

Then I'm in the air. A forward collapse more than a dive. Yet in the time it takes to meet the water I take in the dome of stars over the lake, the glint of distant whitecaps, a whiff of cherry woodsmoke, before it all goes.

And cold. A flashing current of electricity that stops the heart for the space of four beats before it resumes, making up for lost time at double speed. Working to move the blood to my arms and legs, now kicking and circling in a heavy breaststroke. A glance back shows that I'm already a hundred feet from shore and heading farther out.

It's quiet out here. Just the ruffle of air passing my ears, the pant and spit of my mouth. All of me below the water's purple line except the top half of my head. So small a thing, it could dip under without any sound at all.

You're drowning.

An exhausted man just stepped out of a car wreck, fully dressed in clothes now ten times their normal weight. But I don't turn back to give myself a chance. Keep lunging forward, pulling my body out to the deeper place. Drifting lower so that with each breath more water comes in than air.

You're under.

And I am. Kicking my way down deeper to where the water is dense as stone. To where the slime of lake bottom weeds licks my arms. Swaying tentacles that are easily pushed aside at first but in another second have slipped a noose around my neck, tied my hands together in a tight knot.

The panic now. A final choking cough before taking the water in but there is no sound, only a teasing veil of bubbles over my face. The rest of me struggling at the weeds, flipping like a hooked fish, but they only bind me farther inside their swaying body.

Then the muscles finally yield and I can do nothing but absently pull at each slick arm, one by one. And one by one they give way, wrenched from where they grow to be collected in my fists. Then I'm pulling my way up, chin first, squeezing my lips shut for one more second, just hold on until I'm out, until--

The air.

Dog-paddling back the way I came, the range of motion allowed my arms and legs now so limited, I'm capable only of wriggling forward just below the surface. Watch the dark rocks of the shoreline approaching. Keep my eyes on them in the hope that so long as I can see them they won't go away.

And they don't. I pick the nearest one. Pulling myself onto its flat surface with my knuckles, my fingers still clamped shut around two handfuls of weeds. Lurching to my bare feet, from the rock to the mud shore, into the trees, and back up to the road.

When I get there I collapse into the Lincoln and turn the key. The engine hacks and there's a knocking like someone trapped under the hood, but it starts.

Go. Get out of here.

But as I raise my clenched hands to the wheel I see something in the dimness of the car's overhead light that freezes a scream in my throat.

There, gripped tight in my hands, I hold not green weeds pulled from the lake's bottom but a thick clump of human hair, light and dark.

The Lincoln makes it back into town--it must--because the morning finds me pulled into a ball under the sheets, damp footprints leading from the door to the bed. I don't remember the drive back, climbing the stairs, pulling off clothes. Or the package that sits next to me on the bedside table. A loose roll of pages from the latest
Murdoch Phoenix
with a bundle of hair sticking out at both ends and leaving droplets of water on the varnished wood. I don't remember wrapping it up like that and leaving it there so close, but it all must have happened.

Pull back the sheets and haul myself into the shower, the hot water assaulting shoulders and chest. Bend to scrub the dried mud from my feet and it comes off in black clumps and liquid strings. My back burns.

When I'm done, the effort of lifting my legs over the side of the tub sends dark stars popping before my eyes. Water rushes down over my skin to an instant pool on the floor. There's the thought that I should really wipe it up and then in the next second I'm on the floor myself, splayed out like an unmanned puppet under a circulating cloud of steam. In a minute I'll raise my hand to the door handle and crawl out into the cool of the bedroom, wait for the fluttering hitch of my breathing to clear. But for now I just stay where I am, sinking and floating at once.

They say madness runs in families. Like cancer, obesity, hair loss, or rotten teeth, it's handed down to descendants who have the bad luck to inherit the loony-tunes gene from some straitjacketed uncle or granny banished to the attic in the days when such measures were considered nothing more or less than good manners. I don't know my lineage well enough to say for sure, but I always thought the Cranes were relatively free of crazies swinging off the limbs of the family tree. So where did it come from?

It wouldn't be so bad if all I had was an uncomplicated disease of the body. Something slowly debilitating and pitiable, a dystrophy or sclerosis maybe, something with a high enough sympathy profile that it gives rise to television commercials and annual charity telethons. I could lend my services to the cause as a role model, a man - who - continues-to - function-despite- his - handicap story that would feature yours truly being wheeled into courtrooms to ensure the rights of able-bodied misfits and misunderstood thieves. It would be great exposure for my practice, and besides, I don't have much use for my body anymore anyway. But my
mind
! It seems that I'm losing one of the few things I value in the world, and all because the Crane semen-and-ovum trail can be traced back to some long-forgotten lunatic.

Or maybe it's all just the drugs. Building up, hiding in the brain cells I have little need for anymore, such as those responsible for erections or kindness to strangers. Teenage acid, wicked college weed, the purified cocaine of the salaried adult--all finally organized in a unified attack. Not madness, but betrayal from within.

Well, then. It's war.

I will lay siege to my enemy! Cut off the supply lines! Call the sentries to the gate!

In this combative spirit I forgo my usual wake-up line and instead light up one of the cigarettes Flynn gave me. It's not nearly the same effect at all, but I'm glad to find that a few good hauls are at least enough to permit me to remain standing and dress in the normal sequence. Still, somewhere between tucking the shirt in and finding my socks I'm stopped by the pictures on the wall.

Ashley Flynn.

Krystal McConnell.

Too real to be strip-club schoolgirls. Too easily imagined crossing the street with hair storing up the glittering heat of the sun or yawning in a rain-pelted bus shelter to function as fantasies. It's never been real youth I've desired in my entertainments, but youth played out as a predictable game. This requires low lights. A few drinks. The anonymous company of similar-minded consumers. Without these the people onstage only remain people.

Fatigue, paranoia, some major chemical overindulgence over the last several weeks leading to a full-blown anxiety attack. The more reasonable explanation. God knows I've called upon the pacifying effects of Valium on several hundred occasions over the last few years, so it's no surprise that under my current stress I should experience some nervousness. My doctor, therefore, is ultimately to blame for last night. Failing to automatically prescribe me a refill on my last bottle of tranquilizers is, now that I think of it, tantamount to malpractice.