The Faceless One (6 page)

The truth was, she was in no hurry to get home that day. Steven had been a real ass, and she was still angry.

She knew he was upset about the store. How could she not? She had helped him scout the location, paint the interior, build shelves, and move in stock. And it was her mural that graced the façade. Jesus, she knew almost as much about that store as he did, yet he rarely confided in her when business was going poorly. But she could always tell. He would come home surly, and neither she nor Bobby could cheer him up.

And the fight had been dumb: She had told him she might like to have another baby, and he had gone off the deep end about bills and their needing her income. It wasn’t that what he said was wrong, it was that he had come off so condescending, like she was some ditzy fifties housewife who only thought of shopping and babies.

Screw him, he can watch Bobby. I’ll just sit here and drink my soda. Maybe see if Rita wants to go into Westwood
.

Her phone rang, chirping the old
Outer Limits
theme. Steven’s ring. She pulled the phone out of her purse, answering only because it might concern Bobby.

“Hello.” She deliberately made her voice flat, without a trace of cheer. It occurred to her
suddenly that this was how her mother would have acted. That made her sad, but she was committed, like an actress with lines firmly set as she walks out onstage.

“Hi. You still mad?” he asked, the concern in his voice warming her just a little.

“I think I have a right to be.”

“You do, and I’m sorry. I acted like a real jerk.”

“Why do you do that, Steven? You know I’m on your side.”

“I know, I know. Look, I want to talk about this, but I promised Bobby we’d take him for a hamburger and the new SpongeBob. Are you coming home soon?”

He could always get to her. Something in his voice that was both vulnerable and sexy. Liz wanted desperately to tell him it was all right, that they’d go and have a good time and forget the argument, but that was a treacherous path to take.

“Promise me we’ll talk about this, Steven.”

“After we put Bobby to bed. I promise.”

She waited a moment, not wanting to seem a pushover. “Okay, I’ll see you in about forty minutes.”

“I love you, Liz.”

“I love you too, Steven.”

Liz folded up the phone and sighed. She was determined they have this out, not let some movie or cable show prevent them from talking.

She made her way to the parking structure on the north side of campus, the temperature promising a hot Los Angeles summer. Her car, a dented Mazda GLC, sat forlornly among flashy cars that must have cost ten times what hers had. She got in and removed the cardboard sunscreen, which had only provided slight protection from the heat. As she rolled out of the lot, she tried the fan, but the air coming in was warm, a desert wind. The Mazda had blown its compressor a week ago, and they hadn’t had the money to fix it. She tried to remember how little the lack of air-conditioning had meant to her when she was a student at CSUN, the hot, dry breeze blowing in through all the open windows of her VW bug. She used to love the way the warm air caressed her skin, drying any perspiration before it had a chance to run down her neck or sides.

Although it didn’t do much to cool her, the memories of those days and her early courtship with Steven made her smile. She opened up all the windows and cranked up an old CD by the Be Good Tanyas, and was soon singing loudly and slightly off-key.

Traffic was light, one of the benefits of living in La Crescenta, and she was soon driving up into the hills to their neighborhood. Houses of wood, stucco, or stone, all built with enough variety that no two seemed exactly the same. She pulled into their driveway, her little car bouncing over a couple of deep potholes in the gravel driveway. She stopped at the mailbox,
which contained magazines and store flyers but thankfully no bills. She put this pile on the passenger seat and drove up the rest of the long drive.

Midge, one of their two cats, was lying in the driveway but took off as soon as Liz’s car rumbled within ten feet of her.

Liz exited the car, her mind whirling with bills and plans gone awry and foolish morning arguments, but it all was wiped away the moment her son was running out of the front door and leaping into her arms. His hair smelled like sunshine and baby shampoo, and his smile was becoming more like Steven’s every day. She thought she could never love anyone as much as she loved her husband, but then this child had come into their lives. She looked past the chattering child to her husband and fell in love with him all over again. It was pretty much a daily occurrence, she realized.

They had a good afternoon, the three of them, devouring hamburgers and fries, then heading across the mall to the multiplex. The SpongeBob movie had made all of them laugh, especially Bobby, who sat between them and kept looking from Steven to Liz to make sure they got every nuance of the cartoon.

Afterward, they had window-shopped a while, Steven and Liz holding hands while Bobby goggled at toys and sports equipment. His birthday was in two months, and they needed some ideas.

On the way home, Bobby had fallen asleep in the car seat, and Liz and Steven had listened to songs from their college days, softly singing along and grinning when one of them would become entangled in misremembered lyrics.

At home, Steven had disengaged Bobby from the car seat and carried him into the house. He stayed asleep as they dressed him for bed. They left him sleeping peacefully, beloved Bonomo by his side.

Steven joined Liz on the couch, first having to scoop their cats, Luthor and Midge, off. Luthor, big and blue-gray, had yowled as if he were being strangled. Midge, black and white and spindly, had glared at him reproachfully and left the room altogether.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” Steven said to Liz, who held a cup of green tea, her bare feet curled up under her.

“Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong?”

He hesitated, staring ahead while she waited. Finally, he faced her, prefacing his remarks with a pained sigh. “I think I’m going to have to close the store.”

“I was afraid of that,” she said softly.

He looked at her, surprised.

“When two of your favorite bookstores closed down, I knew that didn’t bode well for us.”

He nodded. “I feel like a failure,” he said, his voice almost too low to hear.

“Baby, it’s not you. It’s … it’s the way it is. No one with a small store can compete with the big guys.”

He raised his hands as if they contained the problem within some compact sphere, then dropped them helplessly. When he spoke, he was near tears. “I feel like I’m letting you and Bobby down.”

“No way. You have done everything possible to make that store a going concern. Twenty years ago, hell, even ten, it would have been just fine.”

He looked at her. “I don’t want to lose it, Liz.”

“Maybe there’s something we could do. Hold a benefit? Maybe get some local writers in for a signing?”

He shrugged. She could tell he was exhausted from worrying. Once more, she thought of Daniel with all his wealth. He had offered to pay off their house, wanting to make it a late wedding present, but Steven had refused. His pride would never allow him to accept any kind of gift from his older brother. She wanted to tell him that that was selfish, in its way—taking a stand that did not take into account the satisfaction it would have given Daniel or the security it might give his family. She sighed. He was vulnerable and hurting. This was not the time for a lecture. At least the core of his anxiety had been exposed. They would find a solution together.

She placed her teacup on the coffee table and stood. She took his hand and led him down the hall.

* * *

They made love in their bed, the only one they had ever owned together. Though they knew Bobby was not likely to awaken, they still tried to be quiet. Sometimes, a loud sigh or moan would escape one of them, then the other would shush them, and they’d giggle like children.

There was an ease and familiarity that comes from many years together. Their romance was heightened both by their deep love and sense of play. He always marveled at how beautiful she was, at how she could excite him with the slightest touch or sly smile.

They rode on that slow, sweet tide together, thrilled and pleased. At last, they nestled in each other’s arms, alone in a bubble of contentment that seemed to float far above the world and its troubles.

Finally, they sighed and got up, put on underwear and old tee shirts—their answer to PJs—then snuggled once more in the quiet darkness.

When the phone rang, they debated about answering it but were afraid the continued
ringing might wake up Bobby. Liz answered on the second ring.

“Hello?” she asked, and Steven reached over to tickle her, his grin wide and mischievous. Her expression changed, and he stopped his teasing.

She handed him the phone, her expression full of concern and dread.

“It’s the police in New York.”

Steven felt a chill go through him as he took the phone. For one illogical, panicked instant, he thought it concerned Bobby, but he was tucked safely in his bed down the hall.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Slater, this is Detective Roberts, New York Police Department.” The man’s voice was deep, sympathetic. Hearing that tone, Steven felt the blood drain from his head.

“Is … is it my brother?”

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Steven went cold with those words. He stood up, as if receiving bad news lying in bed was bad form. Wobbling slightly, he forced himself to stand steady.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your brother’s been murdered, Mr. Slater.”

There was a moment for him where everything turned a soft, amorphous gray. Then color returned in a jarring rush. Everything looked the same, but tainted.

Eyes filling with tears, he tried to sit down but couldn’t seem to find the bed. Her face full of worry, Liz helped him settle next to her.

“Who …” he said, struggling. He could not make himself complete the sentence, couldn’t pronounce his brother’s death by speaking it.

“We don’t have any suspects as yet.”

Steven wiped at his eyes, and Liz grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and gave it to him.

“Mr. Slater, do you know of anyone who had a beef with your brother, who might have held some kind of grudge against him?”

“He was an anthropologist, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, sir, still … Do you know of anyone he might have provoked somehow? Even scholars have enemies. Maybe something to do with his investments?”

“Daniel was well liked, Mr. Roberts. By his colleagues and by his business associates.”

“It’s ‘Detective,’ ” Roberts corrected almost apologetically. “Mr. Slater, I have to ask this. Where were you this past weekend?”

“What?” Steven sputtered. “Are you saying I flew out to New York and murdered my brother?”

At this, Liz’s eyes widened in shock. She took Steven’s hand, and he clasped it, glad for her warmth, her strength.

“Your brother was very wealthy. We have to look at all the angles.”

“I would never—” His voice broke off, and a ragged sob erupted from him. He clenched the phone, trying to keep from breaking down completely.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Slater, I really am. Can I give you my number, in case you think of anything that might have some relevance?”

Steven couldn’t answer him. He handed the phone to Liz, and croaked, “His number.”

Liz took the phone.

“Hello, Detective?”

Liz grabbed a pencil off the nightstand. Finding no paper handy, she grabbed a well-thumbed paperback and opened it to the last page.

“Go ahead.”

She repeated the phone number back to Roberts after she’d written it down.

“Thank you, Detective.”

Steven gestured at the receiver.

“Just a moment. Steven wants to talk to you.”

Shaking, Steven took the phone.

“How?” It was all he could get out, but there were volumes in that single word.

There was a pause on the line, then a small sigh. “Mr. Slater, I don’t think you want to know that.”

“Did he … did he suffer?”

There was a pause before Roberts answered, “We’re not sure, Mr. Slater. I hope not.”

Steven tried to hang up the phone, the tinny voice of Roberts offering condolences and saying good-bye lost in the clattering as he tried to replace the receiver. This simplest of tasks suddenly seemed far too complicated. Gently, Liz took the receiver from his hand and placed it on the cradle.

“He said … it was Daniel, and he said—”

“I know, baby, I know.”

He collapsed against her, crying like a child. She held him and rocked him, stroking his hair as he sobbed.

Bobby wandered in, groggy with sleep. He rubbed his eyes and looked at them, trying to make sense of the tableau. Hearing the sobs from his father, he grew alarmed. He rushed over and tried to climb up into bed with him.

“Daddy? Are you okay?”

Steven turned. His eyes were red and swollen, but he managed a smile.

“Hey there, big guy.”

“Why are you crying?”

“Oh, Daddy got some bad news, is all.”

Bobby held up Bonomo.

“You want my bear?”

“I guess I might borrow him for a moment, but I sure could use a hug from you.”

He scooped Bobby and the spindly-limbed bear into his arms and hugged them both. Liz wrapped her arms around them.

“Do you want me and Bonomo to stay in your bed tonight, Daddy?” Bobby asked, his voice muffled in Steven’s shoulder. Steven reluctantly released his son and smiled.

“No, buddy, that’s all right. You go back to bed,” he said. Steven was struggling not to cry, and he didn’t want his son to witness his breakdown. His heart melted when his son gave him one more fierce hug, then hopped down from the bed and walked hand in paw with Bonomo back to his room.

When they heard Bobby climb back into bed and tell Bonomo “Good night,” Steven collapsed into Liz’s arms, and soon her Coldplay tee shirt sleeve was damp with his tears.

* * *

Down the hall, Bobby twitched slightly and murmured, deep in the throes of a nightmare.