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  He grinned.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but no. I would have liked to put mom there but she had the bad manners to have a stroke and die in bed a couple of years ago. It pissed me off, because I’d been planning it for years—there’s a plot reserved for the old man that I’ll fill one day. But she escaped. Then I got lucky. I was doing a late gig at Lancelot’s and this old broad in the front row was really coming on to me. Stuffing ten dollar bills down my jock, licking my ankles. Turns out she was a doctor. Radiologist. Divorced a couple of months and out for a wild night. She came to my dressing room, sloshed to the gills, started pawing me, sending out real strong signals. It turned me off and I was gonna kick her out. But when I turned on the lights I saw it: she could have been the old bitch’s twin sister. Same dried-up face, upturned nose, rich bitch manner.

  “I smiled, said Come on in, honey. Let her do me, right there in the dressing room. The door was unlocked, anyone could have come in. She didn’t care, just hiked up her skirt and got on top. Later we went to her place, condo penthouse in the Marina. Made it again and then I strangled her in her sleep.” His eyes widened innocently. “The burial plot had been chosen. Someone had to fill it.”

  He leaned the axe against the oven, reached into one of the shopping bags with his free hand and brought out a large peach.

  “Want one?”

  “No thanks.”

  “They’re good. Good for you, too. Calcium, potassium. Lots of A and C. Make a great last meal.”

  I shook my head.

  “Suit yourself.” He took a large bite out of the fruit, licked the juice from the ends of his mustache.

  “I’m no threat to you,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “I just want to help your little brother.”

  “How? By pumping him full of poisons? I read all about the stuff they wanted to use on him. That shit causes cancer.”

  “I’m not going to lie and tell you the drugs they use are harmless. They’re strong—poisons just like you said. But that’s what it takes to kill the tumors.”

  “Sounds like a load of shit to me.” His jaw tightened and the beard bristled. “She told me all about the doctors there. Who’s to say you’re any different?”

  He finished the peach and threw the pit in the sink. Took out a plum and dispatched it, too.

  “Come on,” he said, picking up the axe. “Stand up. Let’s get it over with. I wish for your sake that I’d gotten you the first time, with the shotgun. You wouldn’t even have known what hit you. Now you’re gonna have to suffer a bit, waiting for it to happen.”

  25

  I WALKED to the door, the tip of the rifle nudging the small of my back.

  “Open it slowly and carefully,” instructed Carmichael. “Keep your hands on your head and look straight ahead.”

  I obeyed him shakily and heard the rustling of the shower curtain, the sound of Nona’s voice.

  “You don’t need to hurt him, Doug.”

  “Go back in. Let me handle this.”

  “But what if he’s right? Woody’s burning up—”

  “I said I’ll handle it!” the blond man snapped, with sudden loss of patience.

  Her unseen response caused him to soften his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Sis. It’s been heavy and we’re all stressed out. When I finish with him we’ll settle down, drop some B-twelve. I’ll show you how to cool the little guy down. Couple weeks he’ll be fine and we’ll split. This time next month I’ll be teaching him how to shoot the waves.”

  “Doug, I—” she began. I hoped she’d continue to plead my case, providing diversion for a sudden run. But she stopped midsentence. Padded footsteps were followed by the whisper of the curtain closing.

  “Move,” said Carmichael, angered by the hint of rebellion and expressing it by jamming cold steel into my kidney.

  I pushed the door open and stepped into darkness. The chemical stench in the air seemed stronger, the bleakness of the mesa more pronounced. The husks of the unused machines were giant, rusting carcasses, sprawled passive and silent across the ravaged terrain. It was far too ugly a place in which to die.

  Carmichael prodded me through the corridor created by the stacked oil drums. My eyes darted from side to side, searching for escape, but the black cylinders formed high metal barricades, mercilessly seamless.

  Several yards before the end of the passageway he started talking, offering me options.

  “I can do it while you’re standing, kneeling, or lying on the ground the way I did the Swopes. Or, if being still freaks you out, you can make a run for it, get a little exercise to take your mind off what’s coming. I won’t tell you how many steps I’ll give you, so you can pretend it’s like a regular run. Make believe you’re in some kind of marathon. When I run I get high. Maybe you will, too. I’m using a heavy load so you won’t feel a thing. Kinda like one big rush.”

  My knees buckled.

  “Come on, man,” he said, “don’t fall part. Go out with style.”

  “Killing me won’t do you any good. The police know I’m here. If I don’t return they’ll be swarming over this place.”

  “No sweat. As soon as you’re out of the way, we’re splitting.”

  “The boy can’t travel in his condition. You’ll kill him.” The rifle jabbed painfully.

  “I don’t need your advice. I can take care of my own.”

  We walked in silence until we reached the mouth of the metal hallway.

  “So how do you want it,” he demanded, “standing still or running?”

  A hundred yards of flat, empty land lay before me. The darkness would provide some cover for a run but I’d still be easy to pick off. Just beyond the void were hills of scrap metal—strips of sheet-iron, coils of wire, the derrick behind which I’d hidden the Seville. Meager sanctuary, but finding cover among the detritus would gain me time to plan...

  “Take your time,” Carmichael said magnanimously, savoring the starring role.

  He’d played this scene before, was working hard at coming across cool and in control. But I knew he was as unstable as nitro and just might start blowing his lines if provoked. The trick was to get him sufficiently distracted to lower his guard, then flee. Or attack. It was a deadly gamble—a sudden burst of rage could just as easily yank his trigger finger. But there wasn’t much to lose at this point and the idea of submitting passively to slaughter was damned distasteful.

  “Make up your mind?”

  “It’s a bullshit choice, Doug, and you know it.”

  “What?”

  “I said you’re full of shit.”

  Growling, he spun me around, tossed the rifle away, and grabbed the front of my shirt, pulling it tight. He raised the axe and held it poised in the air.

  “Move and I’ll slice you like cheese.” He panted with anger, face glistening with sweat. A feral smell emanated from the mass of his body.

  I kneed him hard in the groin. He yelped in pain and relinquished his grip reflexively. I pulled away, landed on the ground, scurried backward like a crab, scraping my knees and palms. While fighting to push myself upright I pressed my foot against something round. A large metal spring. It rolled, I was upended, and fell flat on my back.

  Carmichael charged forward, hyperventilating like a child coming out of a tantrum. The edge of the axe caught a glint of moonlight. Shadowed against the blackness of the sky he seemed immense, fictional.

  I yanked myself up and crawled away from him.

  “You’ve got a big mouth,” he gasped. “No class, no style. I gave you the opportunity to end it peacefully. I tried to be fair but you didn’t appreciate it. Now it’s gonna hurt. I’m gonna use this on you.” He hefted the axe for emphasis. “Slowly. Turn you into garbage piece by piece and make it last. In the end you’ll beg for a bullet.”

  A figure stepped out from behind the oil drums.

  “Put it down, Doug.”

  Sheriff Houten stepped into the clearing, trim and sure-footed. The Colt .45 extended
like a nickel-plated handshake.

  “Put it down,” he repeated, leveling the firearm at Carmichael’s chest.

  “Leave it alone, Ray,” said the blond man. “Got to finish what we started.”

  “Not this way.”

  “It’s the only way,” insisted Carmichael.

  The lawman shook his head.

  “I just got off the phone with a fellow named Sturgis at L.A. Homicide. He was making inquiries about the doctor here. Seems somebody took a shot at him last night and gunned down the wrong man. Next day the doctor disappeared. They’re looking for him in earnest. I figured he might have ended up here.”

  “He’s trying to break up my family, Ray. You warned me about him yourself.”

  “You’re confused, boy. I told you he’d asked about the back road so you’d find yourself another hiding place. Not to put you up to killing the man. Now drop that axe and we’ll talk about it calmly.”

  He held his gun steady and looked down at me.

  “Damn stupid of you to go snooping around, Doctor.”

  “It seemed better than being a stationary target. And there’s a little boy in that trailer who needs medical attention.”

  He shook his head fiercely.

  “Boy’s gonna die.”

  “Not true, Sheriff. He can be treated.”

  “That’s what they told me about my wife. I let them cut her up and fill her with poisons and the cancer ate her up just the same.” He returned his attention to Carmichael:

  “I backed you up to a point, Doug, but it’s gone too far. Lay down the axe.”

  The two of them locked eyes. I seized the opportunity to roll out of hacking range.

  Carmichael saw me and swung his weapon.

  The .45 blazed. Carmichael jumped back, screaming in pain. He clamped one hand to his side, blood seeping out around his fingers. Incredibly, the other continued to grip the axe.

  “You—you hurt me,” he muttered, incredulous.

  “Just a flesh crease,” said Houten evenly. “You’ll survive. Now let go of the damned axe, boy.”

  I stood and inched toward the discarded rifle, staying out of the blond man’s swinging range.

  The door to the trailer opened, spilling cold white light down the pathway. Nona ran out calling Carmichael’s name.

  “Get the rifle, Sis!” he yelled. The command emerged from between pain-clenched jaws. The hand holding the axe was shaking. The one at his side was glossy red from wrist to fingertips. Blood rolled viscously over his knuckles and dripped to the ground.

  The girl came to a stop, watching wide-eyed as the dirt at Carmichael’s feet sprouted a spreading crimson flower.

  “You killed him!” she shrieked and ran toward Houten, striking out blindly. He straight-armed her while keeping a bead on the wounded man. She flailed away at him without doing any damage. Finally he shoved her aside and she staggered off-balance before falling.

  I edged closer to the rifle.

  Nona picked herself up.

  “You filthy old fuck!” she screamed at the Sheriff. “You were supposed to help us and now you’ve killed him!” Houten looked past her woodenly. Suddenly she flung herself at Carmichael’s feet. “Don’t die, Doug. Please. I need you so bad.”

  “Get the rifle!” he screamed.

  She looked up at him blankly, nodded, and marched toward the weapon. She was closer to it than I and it was time to move. As she stooped to retrieve it I dove.

  Carmichael saw me out of the corner of his eye, pivoted and slashed down at my arm with the axe. I jerked back. He grunted in agony, his wound leaking copiously, and slashed again, missing me by inches.

  Houten crouched, two-handed the .45, and shot Carmichael in the back of the head. The exit trajectory tore open his throat. He clutched at his neck, sucked in air, gurgled, and dropped.

  The girl snatched up the rifle and cradled it knowingly. She stared at the body on the ground. Carmichael’s limbs twitched autonomically and she watched, transfixed, until they were still. Her hair was loose and blowing in the night breeze, her eyes frightened and moist.

  Carmichael’s bowels opened with a burst of flatulence. The beautiful face hardened. She looked up, pointed the weapon at me, shook her head and arced around, aiming at the sheriff.

  “You’re just like the rest,” she spat at him.

  Before he could reply she shifted her attention back to the corpse, began talking to it in a singsong voice.

  “He’s just like the rest, Doug. He didn’t help us because he was good, because he was on our side like you thought. He did it because he was a fucking coward. Afraid I’d tell his dirty secrets.”

  “Quiet, girl,” warned the sheriff.

  She ignored him.

  “He fucked me, Doug, just like all the other filthy, evil old men with their filthy cocks and their sagging balls. When I was just a little girl. After the monster broke me in. The righteous arm of the law.” She sneered. “I flashed him a sample and he lapped it up. Couldn’t get enough. Had to have it every day. In his house. In his truck. Picked me up while I walked home from school and drove me up to the hills to do it. What do you think of our old friend, Ray, now, Doug?”

  Houten shouted for her to shut up. But his voice lacked conviction and he seemed to sag, looking shriveled and helpless despite the big gun in his hand.

  She continued to address the body, sobbing.

  “You were so good and trusting, Doug... You thought he was being our friend, helping us hide out because he didn’t like doctors any better than we did... Because he understood. But that wasn’t it at all. He would have given us up in a minute but I threatened to expose him if he did... To tell everyone that he fucked me. And knocked me up.”

  Houten looked at the Colt. Harbored a terrible thought and dismissed it. “Nona, you don’t wa—”

  “He thinks he’s Woody’s daddy, cause that’s what I’ve told him all these years.” She stroked the rifle and giggled. “Course now, maybe I was telling the truth, maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I don’t even know. We never did do any blood tests to find out, did we, Ray?”

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “You’ll be locked up.” To me: “She’s crazy. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Is that so?” She put her finger around the trigger and smiled. “I guess you know all about crazy. All about crazy little girls. Like little old fat crazy Maria, always sitting by herself, rocking and writing dumb crazy poems. Talking to herself, wetting her pants, and carrying on like a baby. She was crazy, wasn’t she, Ray? Fat and ugly and a real head case.”

  “Shut your mouth—”

  “You shut yours, you old bastard!” she screamed. “Who the hell are you telling me what to do? You fucked me every day, taking sloppy seconds without complaining. Shot your scum into me and knocked me up.” She smiled eerily. “Maybe. Least that’s what I told Crazy Maria. You shoulda seen the look in those piggy little eyes. I gave her all the details. About how you lapped it up and begged for more. Sheriff. I must have upset the poor thing, cause the next day she took a rope and—”

  Houten bellowed and came at her.

  She laughed and shot him in the face.

  He collapsed like wet tissue paper. She stood over him and pulled the trigger again. Braced herself against the recoil and put yet another slug into him.

  I peeled her fingers off the weapon and let it fall between the two corpses. She offered no resistance. Put her head on my shoulder and gave me a lovely smile.

  I took her with me and went looking for the El Camino. It wasn’t hard to find. Houten had parked it just outside the gap in the fence. Watching her closely, I used the radio to make my calls.

  26

  LATE ON a quiet Sunday afternoon, I stood on the lawn across from the entrance to the Retreat and waited for Matthias. Furnace-blast winds had strafed the southern half of the state without letup for thirty-six hours and though sunset was drawing near the heat refused to dissipate. Sticky, itchy, and overdressed in jeans, chambray s
hirt, and a calfskin jacket, I sought the shade of the old oaks circling the fountain.

  He emerged from the main building encircled by a cocoon of followers, glanced in my direction and bade them disperse. They moved to a hilly spot, sat and began to meditate. He approached slowly and deliberately, staring downward, as if searching for something in the grass.

  We came face to face. Instead of greeting me, he dropped to the ground, folded himself into a lotus position, and stroked his beard.

  “I don’t see pockets in the outfit you’re wearing,” I said. “No place to hold a substantial wad of cash. I hope that doesn’t mean you didn’t take me seriously.”