Tango Key (38 page)

"Today at the boat race. I ran into him on the beach. He asked if I'd seen you, and I made some crack about how he was going to have to answer to me if he fucked you over."

Aline chuckled. "Big tough Bernie."

She bent her arm and flexed her muscle. A hill no larger than a pimple crowned her upper arm. "Tough to-the-bitter end," she said, and they both giggled. "So I say my piece to Kincaid," she went on, combing her fingers through her blond hair, then lighting a cigarette, "and he says he's been trying to figure out a way to get you to travel with him. To Chile. Argentina. The South Pole. Wherever the hell else he's going. Now I'm telling you, Al, traveling is his thing, you know? And for him to mention it in the same breath as a woman—any woman—is like . . . well, I don't know what it's like. Miraculous, maybe. So believe me when I say he's nuts about you." She yawned again, downed the last of the coffee, and slipped off the hood. "Now I've got to get my ass home. My son is probably waiting up for me like a good mother. Be careful, okay? I don't like the whole feel of this."

The feel of this
: Aline thought about that after Bernie left. The feel of things. The texture of the air, for instance, hot and still, and the coolness of the Saab's hood through her jeans, and the flushed warmth in her face as she finished off her second cup of coffee. She thought about the pale wash of light in Eve's downstairs window and the flickering light of the TV in the upstairs window. She imagined Eve tucked in for the night, her thin body fitted between sheets that were probably red satin. Red. It fit her. A passionate, violent color.

After a while, the light downstairs winked out. The TV light upstairs stayed on. Mosquitos buzzed around her head, and every so often, the leader of the pack would dive-bomb her. She finally reached into the Saab's glove compartment for the spray can of
Off
Kincaid kept inside. After that, the mosquitos maintained their distance, but her fatigue didn't.

It crept up on her in degrees—tugging at her eyelids, covering her mind like a soft peach fuzz, trying to seduce her with visions of feather pillows and sheets cooler than chilled papaya. Once, she nodded off and came awake suddenly, certain she had heard something. A car?

She slid off the Saab's hood and advanced toward the edge of the pines at a crouch. She squatted in the deep, sweetly scented shadows. The VW was still in the drive, the light in the upstairs window continued to flicker and dance against the curtains. Nothing had changed, except that now she could hear the slap of waves against that prayer rug of a beach behind Eve's house. The beach where Cooper's body had been found ... when? How long ago? It was past midnight now, so that made it July 5. Cooper had been murdered June 7. All right, twenty-eight days ago. Very good. She could still count.

She was deeply tempted to steal out of the trees toward the house. She wanted to peek in the windows, into the heart of Eve's life. She wanted to check out the garage and see if the Mercedes was gone. She wanted to slip under the crack of the door and into the dark and up the broad, winding staircase and watch Monica's Doppelganger as she slept. Would her face be smooth, the tiny wrinkles at her eyes lost in the innocence of sleep? Would the rings on her fingers click together if she stirred? Would she be dreaming of Murphy? Of her exotic sojourn and the stuff of her new life? Her stolen life?

But Aline made no move toward the house. Her specialty was B and E's, not peeping. She rocked back on her heels, pressed her palms against her thighs to rise. And that was when she heard it. The sound again, a soft rustle of leaves, a wrinkle in the silence that raised the hairs on the back of her neck and ignited gooseflesh against her arms, and by the time she'd twisted around, it was too late. Something crashed against her head, and the dark blurred, the smell of pine melted into the fragrance of the sea, the heat. For an instant, she fought the tenebrous cloak of breathlessness, trying to slough it off, to fight back. But her surrender, when it came, was fast, and total.

The last thing she recalled was the sharp poking of pine needles against her cheeks as her face smacked the ground.

T
sk, tsk
, said her mother.
You have gotten yourself into a terrible little fix, Aline.

Her mother was leaning over her, lifting her head gently, pressing something against her lips.
Drink this, she said.

What is it?

Eucalyptus and honey.

She sipped. Her mother had lied. The stuff was hot and tasted like coffee. She opened her eyes. "I don't want that."

Her mother laughed, but it wasn't her mother, her mother didn't have a beard, her mother wouldn't say. "I don't give a fuck what you want, drink it anyway." Her mother had never said fuck.

She pushed the glass away and sat up. Pain exploded at the back of her head, and she gasped and rubbed at it, and now her eyes focused and she saw that the person crouched next to her, trying to feed her something, wasn't her mother. It was Kincaid.

"I may be dying," she said.

"I doubt it," he said.

"Someone hit me."

The inside of her head felt like it had been stuffed with flaming cotton. There was a weird smell in her nostrils. She coughed and sucked in the hot night air.

"I found this next to you." Kincaid held up a wad of Kleenex. "It was thick with chloroform."

"Chloroform?"

"Just keep taking deep breaths, Al."

She did.

Gradually, she could smell the pine again and some of the haziness in her head started to clear.

"The VW's gone," Kincaid said.

It took a moment for the import of that to settle in, but when it did, she took the glass from his hand and drank it down. The coffee congealed in her stomach like hot blood. Gorge rose in her throat; she swallowed it down. She struggled to her feet. "She's gone, Kincaid. Jesus, she's gone, and I blew it. C'mon."

They darted out of the trees, across the road to the house. She rang the doorbell. She knocked. She rang the doorbell a second time, a third. They went around to the back of the house, trotted up the steps of the porch. The pain at the back of her head was an operetta, a symphony, a military march.

The sliding glass door wasn't open, but it was unlocked. They stepped into the family room, stood as still as statues, as wax figures in London museum.

"Eve?" Her name echoed in the quiet.

Aline flicked on the light. "I'll check the upstairs," Kincaid said, and sprinted away from her.

She made a full circuit through the downstairs, even though she already knew the house was empty. She even peeked into the garage, but of course the Mercedes wasn't there. It had been sold. Eve had sold the Mercedes, banked the bucks.

Eve had knocked Aline over the head, chloroformed her, and hopped in her VW and driven to the marina. And when had that happened? An hour ago? Two hours ago? It didn't matter. By now, Eve was bound for Trinidad or Australia or Brazil.

Was Murphy with her?

Had Murphy sneaked up on her and hit her over the head? "Hey, Allie, come up here a second," Kincaid called.

She found him in Eve's bedroom, leaning over a wad of cellophane or plastic on the nightstand, a gooseneck lamp shining directly on it. He poked at it with a pair of tweezers and picked up the edge of it—a baggie, speckled with moisture. There was something beige inside, a piece of frozen food that looked like it had been thawing for a while.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I don't know."

He tipped the bag and the thing inside fell out and plunked against the brass base of the lamp. She stared at it, reached out, and touched her finger to it. The thing wasn't quite frozen and felt almost spongy. The odd pattern of ridges was. . . "Oh God," she whispered, yanking her hand back, rubbing it over her shirt, her jeans, rubbing it again and again as nausea swelled in her throat.

It was an ear.

Cooper's ear.

"The past is the present, isn't it?"

—EUGENE O'NEILL

July 6, 5:10 P.M.

E
ve's thoughts wander like children in a department store. She knows it's the drug, the pills he gave her earlier. She tries to focus her mind on a specific thing to counteract it—on the hardness of the floor, the jug of water she clutches to her chest, on the panel in the wall she's found just above her head.

Minutes ago, Daddy disappeared through the panel. He slid it open and dived into the black yawning hole behind it. She wants to follow even though it frightens her. But staying here frightens her worse. Maybe Daddy will show her a way out. After all, he found the panel, didn't he?

She stands, sets the jug of water down, pats the wall until her hands touch the panel. She slides it open, pokes her head into the hole. A bad smell. Stuffy. "Daddy?" she whispers.

In here, Evie.

His voice is close, so close she can smell the gin on his breath. She hoists a leg through the opening; her foot touches the floor. The wood is rough but seems solid. She pulls her other leg through, and now she is standing inside the hole, blinking, whispering, "Daddy? Can you hear me? Where are you?"

She lifts her right arm; her fingers brush the wall. She lets her hands roam over the wood, defining the space she is in, her feet moving forward, sideways, back, until her heel strikes something. She squats, patting the floor around her feet. There. Right there. A ridge. She works her fingers under it, sliding them around the edge. It's concrete, circular, like one of those covers you see in the road sometimes. She pulls. The cover squeaks as it opens. Cool air rolls over her moist face. "Babe?"

She leaps up and scrambles back through the hole into the closet, sliding the panel shut behind her. She scoots to the front of the door and stretches out on the blankets and pillow he gave her earlier. She pretends she's asleep. Her heart hammers. The door opens; a pale band of light falls across her eyes.

"You ready to eat?"

She sits up, knuckles her eyes. He seems big this morning, much bigger than she remembers, filling the doorway, light leaking around the edges of him. "I have to pee," she says.

"I've got coffee. I know how much you like coffee. I don't have any of that good Colombian stuff Doug used to bring back, but you'll like this coffee. It's real strong. And I'm going to make us bacon and eggs."

Doug: it seems she should know that name, but she doesn't know why. There's something about it that scares her a little. "I like toath. Will you make me toath?"

"Sure." He crouches in the doorway. "I have something to show you."

She wraps her arms around her legs, waiting. He reaches around behind him, and when he turns again he's holding a square box. He lifts the lid and she peers over the
edge. Lying
inside
,
on a bed of velvet the color of orchids, is a gold frog. He picks it up carefully and holds it in front of her. The eyes are deep green. They seize the little light there is and break it into pieces. The eyes wink and sparkle. The gold shines. It is the prettiest thing she's ever seen. She touches her fingers to the frog's head, slides her fingers down its back, to its haunches, its webbed feet like lace. The body isn't smooth, but has tiny ridges and folds, just like a real frog.

"For me? Ith it for me?" she asks.

He laughs; she doesn't understand what so funny. "Yeah, sure. For you. A seven-million-dollar frog for you."

Something flutters at the back of her mind, something ugly. It terrifies her. She draws her fingers away from the frog.

She's seen this frog before, she knows she has, but she can't remember where or when or why it should scare her so much.

And yet she wants it. She wants to hold it. Peer into those green eyes. It is hers. He has stolen it from her, and she wants it back, wants it even though it scares her.

"Aline," she says, and snatches it from his hands.

He laughs, but with surprise, not because it's funny. "Lemme have it back, babe. C 'mon."

"No." She clutches it to her chest. "Mine."

"I'll let you have it after breakfast, okay?"

"Promithe?"

"Cross my heart." He draws an X over his heart.

"Okay. But it'th mine. You juth take care of it."

"Right." He frowns a little as she passes it to him and puts it back in the box. Then he holds out his hand and helps her to her feet. He places the box with the frog in it on the old bureau. Funny, but she seems to recall standing in front of that bureau, setting boxes on it, putting things in those drawers. But when?