Hollywood Gothic (36 page)

“I think maybe that’s it,” he said quietly. “I think maybe you’ve just cracked Aaron’s nuts, my love!”

“What do you mean?”

“Aaron has made a mistake. I don’t know what it means, but Priscilla must know something to be getting paid off about. Aaron … Jesus, he’s gone to get her, goddammit, I
know
he has. Morgan, I think he’s going to kill her!” Suddenly he was dripping with sweat. “We’ve got to hurry,” he said almost to himself.

When he turned off the highway and began to wind upward and inland, they were plunged into a deeper darkness. There were no other cars, no other lights, nothing but the blackness of the forested hillsides. The smell of the ocean faded, was replaced by earth and trees. There was a faded wooden sign painted Lucky Strike green back in the days before Lucky Strike green had patriotically gone to war. The paint was peeling in spots and the sign was wet beneath the two headlights in their block metal shades,
“VARNER’S TRAILER PARK”
in big white letters, and beneath it, very small but still legible, the inscription “Established in 1934 for folks like you and me.” Challis pulled the Mustang into the gravel drive. Down the road, just over the rise of a hill, the lights of the town glowed dimly in the rain. There was a neatly painted office in a small wooden frame building which stood guarding the entrance. No Los Angeles razzmatazz, no neon lights, no gaudy bullshit. It might still have been 1934. Challis drove up even with the door of the office. A man came out beneath a black, very old umbrella: shiny button eyes, a grizzle of white hair on his bony head and chin, a pipestem shape, a baggy sweater, a cigarette butt stuck on his lower lip. He looked as old as the century, but spry, like he might have come west with the Joads themselves.

“Evening, folks,” he said. “Sam Varner’s the name, what can I do you for?” The cigarette bobbed frantically when he spoke. He’d never lost his Oklahoma twang.

“We’re looking for someone,” Challis said, “an old friend …”

“Well, I got lots of them here. Damn near everybody lives here is an old friend, don’tcha know.” He smiled from beneath the umbrella. “Which old friend would you like?”

“Priscilla Morpeth—we heard she was here, haven’t seen her in ages.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say so? I’m not sure Prissy’s in, but you can go check for yourself … number forty-one, that’s down the second row to your right here … t’other fella left, though.” He was turning around, going back inside.

“Oh, shit,” Challis said.

He drove carefully through the puddles. The trailers were all old, from long before they started calling them mobile homes, and they lay quietly in rows, like coffins, a light over each door, the blue glow of television sets at the windows, little soggy flowerbeds flanking the two or three steps up to each dwelling. It was the Social Security life, but you sensed immediately this was a place of old-time Norman Rockwell values, that the lawn mowers were the kind you pushed, and Grandpa took little Junior fishing in the streams nearby, and if you went to a movie, that meant it was Saturday night in town, and if you really wanted to raise hell you could get a sundae at the drugstore later. In the morning the crews weren’t going to come and strike the set.

There was a faint light inside number forty-one, which was plain white with green trim, in good repair, with two flowerbeds and a tiny white picket fence protecting them. A mailbox was impaled on top of a chain that rose from the ground in a straight line, frozen. Challis and Morgan maneuvered through the slippery, muddy approach, stood pounding on the door. Wind blustered in the thick growth of trees that encroached prettily on the camp and gave it a permanent look.

“She’s not in there, mister.” A small man in a bathrobe and pajamas stood on the roofed stoop of the next-door trailer. “She’s not at home tonight. … Wouldn’t you know,” he said sadly, “she wouldn’t be home the night she’s so popular.”

“We’re old friends of Mrs. Morpeth,” Challis said. “You say she had other visitors tonight—that may have been my uncle, we were hoping to surprise her.”

“Well, your uncle wasn’t in very good spirits, I’ll say that. Fella in a Rolls-Royce, big dent in the fender, hubcap missing?”

“That’s uncle, all right. Always in a hurry. Did he leave any message for us?”

“Can’t say as he did—in fact, he didn’t say a damn thing. Looked half-crazy, if you don’t mind my saying so … had this handkerchief he kept up to his nose. He was swearing, got back in his car and slammed the door—I thought another hubcap was about to fly off! Then he took off.”

Morgan said, “You don’t happen to know where Priscilla might be, do you? This is really rather important.”

“Well, there you are, young lady. Happens I do know … but your uncle, hell, he didn’t have time to say hello, or I’d have told him too—Priscilla’s at Griffith Park! How do you like that? All the way back to Los Angeles!” He thought that was hellishly amusing.

“I don’t quite understand,” Challis said. “Griffith Park, it’s a huge place—”

“The observatory, of course.”

“Tonight? In this rain?”

“Rain makes no difference to Priscilla, no sir! Griffith Park three nights a week, like clockwork … some people are like that, got to have their routine. If it’s clear she looks at the stars—she’s very big on the stars, does those charts for folks, tells them all about themselves. Mind you, I personally don’t think you need the stars to tell you about yourself, but others do, which is what makes for horseraces—”

“You’re sure she’s there?”

“Young fella, when John McEndollar tells you it’s the case, count on it. It’s the case.” He looked at his watch. “She’ll be there all evening. Beat-up yellow Toyota, you’ll see it.”

The Mustang had just turned around and was headed back up between the row of trailers when the headlights came around the corner, flicked up to bright, and blinded him. A long black car blocked the way. “Goddammit,” he said. “What the hell …” Then the doors on the passenger side flew open and two men were running toward them. They reached both Mustang doors simultaneously, their faces in shadow. Metal rapped on the windows, the doors were yanked open. “Out! Out, come on … out!” Challis saw the oily sheen of the gun barrel, felt the hands grab him roughly and pull him out into the rain. Another voice said, “Stay where you are, lady, and don’t make a sound.” As he got out, Challis slipped, grabbed the door to keep from falling. There, in the beam of his headlights, stood the squat, solemn figure of Bruce Woodruff, his eyes demonic red in the glare.

“Mr. Challis,” a familiar voice said, “steady as you go.” Hands moved expertly, frisking him.

“Carl,” Challis said, recovering his breath. “I’ve got forty hours to go, pal.”

“Mr. Laggiardi has changed the plans, sir. We’re going to split you and Miss Dyer up now. Ted, John, you follow us in the Mustang with the lady … you come with Mr. Woodruff and me, Mr. Challis. Don’t worry, we’re all going to the same place.” He prodded Challis gently.

“If I’m not supposed to worry, why are you carrying a gun?”

Challis realized how quiet it had been: all the noise and fear had been in his head. The trailer park was unchanged, no doors being flung open, no cries of alarm.

Carl laughed ingenuously. “What is it they say out here? It’s just a prop … dressing the scene. Don’t worry. Just climb in back with Mr. Woodruff.” He held the door. Woodruff was already in the car. Challis got in, sat warily, as far from Bruce as possible. Carl backed the Lincoln around and drove out the gate. The Mustang was right behind. It was raining hard and the tightly closed windows made the windshield fog up.

“Where are we going?”

“Not far,” Woodruff said.

“I don’t understand. I said the diaries are going to show up in Kreisler’s office—what more can I do?”

“You weren’t very nice to Mr. Roth.”

“Which Mr. Roth?”

“You take your pick. I was thinking of Aaron.”

“Nobody told me I couldn’t be mean to Aaron.”

“Our mistake. We should have told you it was a bad idea.”

“Look, are you trying to throw a scare into me, Bruce?”

“Not at all. Just be quiet.”

Woodruff had nothing else to say. Challis turned, saw the Mustang close behind, Morgan’s white face blurred by the rain. At the main highway, they turned left, back toward Los Angeles. A mile or so along the highway, Carl hit the turn signal and slowed down. He was whistling “I Could Have Danced All Night,” looking for something. The rain made it difficult to see, but finally he found a path between two clumps of bushy gorse flourishing in the wet sand. The lights poked out into the black void, and the Lincoln tilted forward. They were headed down a narrow one-lane path toward the ocean. The wind blowing hard, driving the smell of the sand and the salt water ahead of it. The immense weight of the limo sank in the wetness. The car’s undercarriage scraped. The shrubbery ended. They moved out onto the concrete-hard wet sand of the beach. Fog blew across the headlights. Carl turned the ignition off. The surf exploded not far away, sounded like a train wreck. Carl turned back toward them. “Well …” he said.

“Please get out of the car,” Woodruff said. “Just for a moment.”

Challis got out. Ted and John and Morgan were already standing by the Mustang. The wind howled, ripped at his hair. Ted’s hat was jerked off his head. Suddenly everybody seemed very serious, and there were a lot of guns. Everywhere Challis looked there was a gun in somebody’s hand. Somebody was speaking, but the wind blew the words away.

“What the hell’s going on?” he yelled.

Carl was looking away from him, out at the ocean. In the cones of light the fog rose. The beach looked like it was burning, smoking in the rain and wind.

“Bruce?” Challis called.

“Mr. Laggiardi …” Bruce was saying something, but Challis couldn’t hear all of it. “ … sorry about this … said you’d understand …”

“I can’t hear you,” Challis said. Bruce was motioning with the gun. Morgan suddenly ran toward him, pale, her face distorted. She clung to him, her arms around him, blond hair plastered down with the rain.

“Toby …” Her voice was husky and hoarse near his face. “They’re going to kill us.”

He looked at Bruce. “For God’s sake …”

Bruce didn’t look well. “Not my idea.” His hand shook. “Carl,” he screamed. “Ted …
do it!
”

It was a job nobody seemed to want.

Ted scowled. Unexpectedly, when he seemed on the verge of bringing the automatic up, he spun around, faced the darkness from which they’d come.

With unspeakable, perfect precision, without any sound overriding the wind and the surf, people began to die.

Ted was bowled over backward, dropped to the sand like a dead fish. John was hit in the back and bounced off the Mustang. By the time he slid to the ground, Carl was already dead, pitched daintily forward in front of the limo, his fingers curling spasmodically in the sand.

Bruce had only those few seconds to grasp what was going on. He turned toward the darkness, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes wide and searching, when he was slammed against the car for a moment, eyes frozen wide, then bent forward as if he were hinged at the waist, and fell with his face in the sand,

Challis felt his legs go. Abruptly he sat down and began swallowing dry spit to keep from puking. Morgan sank with him, her face buried against his chest. She was shaking uncontrollably, sobbing, gasping for breath.

When he finally focused his eyes, looked away from the bodies, he saw a large man coming toward them. The ungainly gun was drooping from one huge hand, and he limped on a stiff leg.

“Jesus Christ,” Challis croaked. “Don’t shoot!”

The other hand was offered and drew them to their feet.

“My God, thanks, Tully,” Challis said.

“N
O, THAT WASN’T TOO TOUGH
, miss. When they don’t know you’re there, you can plan your shots. It’s something like a set-up billiard shot, and you’ve got to know your own capabilities. And your weapon. I had the advantage of surprise and a gun that will do just what you want it to do. The wind and the noise of the surf were negatives, distractions, as well as the fact that I had so many guys to hit while making sure I didn’t nick you and Toby. I had maybe six seconds at the outside, and I wanted to move the gun barrel smoothly in one direction, not get it jerking back and forth. The gun has such killing power, they didn’t suffer unduly, ma’am.” Tully Hacker straightened both arms ahead of him, pushing against the steering wheel of the ordinary green station wagon. He was working the tension out of his arms. Challis leaned his face against the side window, felt the cold, moist glass. Morgan sat between them. The three cars sat as before, angled across the sand. Carl’s body was obscured; the other three lay like humps of seaweed washed up by the storm.

“I don’t understand how you followed us,” Morgan said. She was back to normal already, unlike Challis, who felt sick and had a catch in his side.

“Again, it’s not so hard once you know how. I tailed you from in front, doubled back when you weren’t in the mirror anymore.”

“But why were you there at all?”

“A lot of worries were coming together in my mind—you know, I’m just an old mercenary, paid for thinking as much as for doing, and I’ve been thinking about poor old Toby here. I like him, he never was much of a match for the Roths, he never thought like they think—for them, even for Solomon, life is a battlefield, a war zone where you work every angle … not your average family, miss. Hell, look at the way they behave, right down the line, it’s something in the blood, if you ask me. So, I was worried about Toby because I like him. I was worried about Solomon and Aaron because I work for them. … Sol isn’t quite as confused as he sometimes appears—when he came into the cottage back at the studio he told me what you were going to do, told me about this Priscilla Morpeth thing and the diaries.” He shrugged. “So I thought I’d better go along, too. Frankly, I wanted to know what Priscilla would have to tell you. I just turned off my headlights and stayed behind you.”

Challis said weakly, “Tully, you just killed four men …”

“Look at it this way, I just saved two good lives and spent four bad ones. That’s not a bad deal—personally, I figure we’d all be a lot better off if we could do this more often.”