Trust Me (26 page)

CHAPTER 60

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They drove without speaking, Jeff at the wheel, all the way to Highland, then onto Sunset.
Holly had put up the top; now the silence in the car was palpable, filled with a quality that took him some time to decipher. It was anger, he realized, radiating from Holly like heat.

She spoke for the first time as he turned right on Franklin. “I’ve always hated guns . . .”

He looked over at her, the set of her jaw, her lips pressed together, the cold flash in her eyes as she glanced back at him.

“. . . but I’d really like to have one right now.”

There wasn’t much to say to that. Yes, it would be nice to have the Walther; the police still had it and he wasn’t sure if he could get it back. Or if he wanted to.

The wail of a siren made him look in the rearview mirror. Flashing colored lights were overtaking the cars behind him and, as he pulled over to the right, a fire truck bore down on the BMW and passed them, its deep horn blaring. A second, then a third, truck followed.

Six cars were stopped in a line at the entrance to Beachwood Canyon. A fire captain’s red sedan was parked at the curb. In the center of the street a black-and-white patrol car had its colored lights strobing. A cop with a flashlight spoke to each driver, waving several of them through. Two had to make U-turns around the patrol car and re-enter Franklin. When Jeff and Holly pulled up, the officer motioned for them to stop. Jeff hit the button to make the window go down. “What’s going on?”

“Fire’s made it to the top of the hill. Residents only beyond this point.”

“That’s okay, we live up here.” He hoped the cop wouldn’t ask for a driver’s license.

“What’s the address?”

“454 Sycamore.” He had found the address easy to remember because there were four hundred and fifty-four grams in a pound. And it rhymed. It struck him that part of his old self would always be with him.

A blast of static and garbled speech came from the red sedan at the curb to their right. He heard the fireman yell something about holding back any more cars. In his rear-view mirror he saw a new line formed behind him.

“Thank you very much, officer.” He looked up and nodded as the man waved him through. Driving away slowly, he saw the red sedan in his rearview mirror as it moved diagonally into the place the BMW had just occupied, blocking the line of waiting cars.

It was with a sense of relief that he pulled into the gravel driveway and parked the BMW next to his own car. The darkened house looked peaceful, isolated from the insanity Ron had reported at the restaurant, and he was glad to be home.

He unlocked the front door and followed Holly through the living room as she angled left toward the kitchen.

“How about some coffee?” She seemed relieved to be back also.

“I don’t know, it’s pretty late,” he said.

“I doubt I’ll be sleeping any time soon.” Holly put the cup of hot sauce and the leftovers from Nick’s on the counter, opened a cupboard, and pulled out two coffee mugs. She placed them on the wooden table in the middle of the kitchen.

“There’s decaf in the freezer. It’s good, vanilla flavored.” He sat at the far end of the table, facing the doorway to the living room.

Holly measured the grounds and poured them into a filter, added water to the Melitta, and switched it on. He watched as she took the plastic cap off the cup of hot sauce.

“What should we do with this?” Holly put the cup to her nose and smelled the contents.

“Well, we could save it in case the drain ever gets clogged.”

“Very funny.” She put the cup down on the counter. “I meant, is there anything I can put it in, like a glass jar?” She surveyed the open cupboard.

“I don’t know. I’ll look in a little while.” He watched her, the way her hair picked up the light, her slender grace as she reached up and pulled down a bag of turbinado sugar. The coffee began to drip.

Over her shoulder, she said, “I like it here. It feels safe.”

“I know. I’m glad.” A distant siren screamed, and the wind kicked up outside. Something wasn’t right. A corollary breeze blew into the kitchen.

“You didn’t open any windows before we left, did you?” He was sure he had closed them—in this weather the house maintained a cooler temperature that way.

Holly turned to look at him. “No. In fact I closed the one in the bedroom. Why?”

Even as she spoke, he looked up to see an image he at first rejected as impossible, like a hallucination from a bad drug. He sat paralyzed, vaguely aware—as though from a distance—of a startled yelp from Holly, an intake of breath so abrupt that it created a vocal expression of pure dread.

Doctor Jack Stanley stood in the doorway, the darkness of the living room behind him.

“Knock, knock, knock.” He smiled amiably, echoing his words by rapping three times on the doorframe with a long metal bar. In his left hand he held a paper grocery bag. “Isn’t this cozy?”

Jeff looked at Holly, who stood frozen with her back to the counter. He tried to picture himself blocking the tire iron, wresting it away, overpowering the man, but his heart was beating too fast, his breath was too short, the will to move was not forthcoming.

“Well, isn’t anyone going to invite me in?” Jack stepped forward to the chair opposite Jeff, hooked it with his foot to pull it back, and sat. He put the bag down and let the tire iron rest on the table. The claw end of the shaft of the iron was matted with hair embedded in a sticky-looking rust-colored substance. His rumpled suit was streaked and spattered in the same color. There was a mad, hysterical glint in his eye, but when he spoke he sounded to Jeff like the same old Doctor Jack.

“So. I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.” Jack smiled again, closing his eyes and lolling his head from shoulder to shoulder as though enjoying music that only he could hear. The guy has lost it, Jeff thought. Now. It’s time to act.

Jack’s eyes snapped open, staring at him. “The bad news,” he turned to his right to face Holly, “the very sad news, is that this will be the last of our little times together. I’m sure you know how much I’ve come to cherish them.” He turned back to Jeff. “The good news”—now he reached into the bag—“is that I come bearing gifts.” Out of the bag he pulled two squarish bottles, which he placed on the table. One—it was Bushmills, Jeff noticed—was half empty. The other had the familiar black-and-white label of Jack Daniel’s.

Doctor Jack let go of the tire iron and removed the top from the Bushmills. He took a long, hard hit from the bottle, staring directly into Jeff’s eyes even as he tilted his head back. He put his bottle down, unsealed the Jack Daniel’s, and leaned forward to pour from it into Jeff’s empty coffee cup. Now, goddammit. Now.
At least get the tire iron. But he sat, immobile, unable to grab the part of the shaft that was closest to him, the blood still sticky on the black metal. Idiotically, he wondered whose hair was matted on it.

“Just like old times, isn’t it?” Doctor Jack settled back and grinned. “Oh, here, I almost forgot.” He reached into the lining pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a plastic baggie with a large white lump in it, which he then mashed between his thumb and forefinger. Opening the bag, he leaned across the table again and dumped the powder on the table in front of Jeff. “Your favorite, as I recall.”

“Art, for God’s sake—” Holly began, but the man glanced sharply at her and held up a hand, palm out: Stop.

Jeff found his voice. “I’m not interested in this stuff anymore. Why don’t you just go while you can?” He wondered where Ron and Leanne were, if they were stuck at the bottom of the canyon. And Joe, wasn’t he supposed to be here?

“I’ll be going soon enough. But for right now—” Doctor Jack picked up the tire iron and leaned forward slightly, reaching across the table until the claw end was inches from Jeff’s forehead “—drink up.”

Jeff didn’t move.

“I SAY DRINK UP.” Jack stood, yelling now. “DO IT!”

The tire iron slammed down so hard on the table that the bottles rattled and the wood split from end to end. Whiskey spilled from the cup and met the pile of white powder, amalgamating into an amber smear. Doctor Jack raised the iron again, his face looming over the table in a mask of rage.

As if in slow motion, Jeff saw Holly’s right hand appear from behind her on the counter, the white Styrofoam cup drawing an arc above the table until it stopped just short of Doctor Jack’s face. The cup’s contents, the brown liquid from the restaurant, flew into the man’s eyes, causing him to bellow in pain. He dropped the tire iron and fell back into the chair, hands covering his eyes.

Holly picked up the weapon and cocked it back behind her. Using her entire body, she swung it around in the same arc as the cup had drawn. The metal connected with a sharp crack just above the Jack’s eyebrows. His head snapped back and he fell backward over the chair.

“Jesus Christ!” Jeff got up, walked over to the other end of the table, turned and paced back, too agitated to formulate an action.

Holly stood as she had before, in her position with her back against the edge of the counter. Her face was white and he could see her fist tighten and relax its grip on the iron as she breathed.

“Tie him up so I don’t have to hit him again, would you?”

He pulled Jack’s body into a sitting position. There was some nylon cord in a utility drawer.

“Christ. I can’t stand it.” Holly stared at Doctor Jack’s inert form, the blood flowing from his forehead. She bent forward and picked up the empty grocery bag from the table, placing it upside down over the man’s head. Jeff bound Jack’s wrists together behind his back. At a loss for what to do next, he walked around the table to where Holly stood and drew her to him. She resisted stiffly but didn’t pull away. After a moment she relaxed slightly into his arms. He could feel his heart pounding against her.

There was a stirring from the table, a rustling from the paper bag. Holly jumped, startled, and said, “This is insane. I can’t handle it.” He pulled her back, her head nestled on his shoulder, and stroked her hair. For a moment the only sounds were of his breathing, deliberately slow and deep, and hers, still staccato but slowing in rhythm.

CHAPTER 61

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It helped, being held by Jeff, but not enough.
She felt consumed with a sense of dread that was nearly paralyzing. When Jeff stepped away and said he was going to call Ron, she fell backwards and had to catch herself against the counter.

Jeff rang off in frustration. “Shit, he must be on the line. Where the hell are they, anyway?” Then he told her, “Wait here. I’m just going out to the driveway to look,” and walked out of the kitchen.

She heard the front door open and Jeff’s footsteps on the gravel driveway. She leaned against the counter, numb with anxiety, wondering why she didn’t feel triumph, vindication, or at least relief. She needed her medication, but it was in the car, and she knew a seizure was coiling like a cobra inside her, ready to strike.

The rustle of the bag startled her. She grabbed a knife from the counter and turned to see the man, grotesque with the bag over his head, fresh blood staining the front of his jacket, strain against the nylon cord and then relax, sitting erect now. A deep, malevolent chuckle issued from the bag and Jack began to gently rock back and forth.

“Bravo, Holly, bravo. Home run.” He chuckled again. “All that anger finally found a target outside of yourself.”

“You’re insane.”

Doctor Jack’s shoulders raised once, a shrug. “Ah, well. Sanity. Such a delicate thing really, even in the best of men.” He was silent for a moment, then said softly, “Holly, trust me. The doctor needs your help.”

Holly’s lethargy deepened; she struggled to say no but her heart wasn’t in it. Nothing mattered and she didn’t care. She heard it again, like an echo: “Holly, trust me. The doctor needs your help.” She stood over him, paralyzed. A tremor in her hand became a violent shaking; the knife flew out of her grasp and the seizure gripped her like a wolf shaking a rabbit.

CHAPTER 62

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Jeff paced to the end of the driveway for the fourth time, checking the street as if it would help speed Ron and Joe’s arrival.
He tried calling again. The air was hot and dry, and the smell of burning was thick on the breeze. As he turned to go back to the house, movement caught the corner of his vision.

Holly’s BMW bore down on him like a strike ball on a leading pin. In an impossible frozen moment he saw Jack hunched forward at the wheel, grinning as he accelerated. He jumped to the side and watched as the car veered by, Holly slack-faced as a sleepwalker in the passenger seat. Gravel kicked up and showered him as he stumbled and then rolled to the side of the driveway.

The car fishtailed out of the driveway and turned right. He knew there was only one house left before the street hit a dead end, and that although it had a long, circuitous driveway, the house was perched just up the hill and next door to Ron’s house, sharing a cliffside view of the canyon and the roads below. A narrow trail meandered through dry scrub brush most of the way between the two homes.

He ran to the side of Ron’s house and started up the dirt path toward the neighbor’s house. He heard the neighbor’s dog barking incessantly; to his left, beyond the street, flames consumed the hillside. The wind swept down the canyon, pushing the fire toward him. He sprinted up the last of the trail and found an opening in the hedge that marked the boundary of the neighbor’s property.

He crawled through the narrow space. Thorns from the hedge and burrs in the dirt pressed into his hands. He came out into the clear at the juncture of the driveway and the garage: Holly’s car sat askew in a flower patch across the driveway, both doors open and the engine still running.

The front door was open. He entered a foyer that led into a huge room. Gold and platinum records lined the walls, and ornate Chinese lacquered furniture rested on expensive oriental rugs. There was no sign of Jack or Holly, but the dog’s barking was louder. He turned to his right, walked through the kitchen, and found a door to the side yard. He opened it to find a dog run; the neighbor’s huge Akita was on a chain linked to an overhead cable. The dog stopped barking and came to him and sat, as if expecting a treat from his master. He undid the clasp of the chain from the dog’s collar, then, as an afterthought, reached up and released the chain from the cable.

The Akita bounded toward the far end of the dog run, then reared up and placed his paws against the house, growling. Jeff followed and saw that the dog was looking through the open half of a Dutch door and into a bedroom. Diagonally, across the room, was a sliding glass door, open, and beyond it, a porch that ran the length of the house, with Jack and Holly struggling at the rail.

The Akita got there first and snapped at Jack’s leg. Holly slipped free but tripped over a chaise lounge as she backed away. Jack raised the tire iron high above his head, ready to bring it down on the dog, but Jeff raced through the doorway and swung the chain outward. He watched, fascinated, as it wound itself around Jack’s forearm, then yanked hard, ducking as the tire iron swung down and missed his head. He raised his left foot and came down with all his weight on Jack’s ankle; there was a satisfying snap of bone that told him at least Holly would get away from this alive. The man roared like a beast and swung his body around, ripping the chain from Jeff’s grasp and smashing the glass door behind him as he spun.

Holly was still on the ground where she had fallen. Jack completed his mad, drunken spin and tried to keep his balance on his ruined ankle. Jeff saw that the collapse would land him on top of Holly; he reached out and pushed Jack toward the porch rail, which cracked and splintered and almost entirely gave way, leaving Jack suspended over the sixty-foot drop to the street below.

He picked up the tire iron and raised it as he stepped toward Jack, who was trying to disengage himself from the wreckage of the railing. He heard Holly cry out, “Jeff, no!” and relaxed his grip on the iron. He experienced relief that he wouldn’t have to kill the man, followed by a new surge of adrenaline when he saw the chain swing toward his face and Jack begin to lurch upward. As Jeff ducked he heard a low growl and saw the Akita launch itself at Jack, this time completing the job of demolishing the railing.

The growl turned into a high whine and then a pathetic yipping sound as man and dog disappeared from sight. The sickening sound of the almost simultaneous impacts was followed by what seemed like complete silence, until gradually the sound of wind and flames reasserted themselves in the background and the sound of Jeff’s own breathing began to dominate. He leaned down to help Holly to a standing position. As they looked over the ruined railing, the screech of brakes accompanied the arrival of the Land Rover, which came to a stop an arm’s length from Jack’s body, and they watched as Ron and Joe stepped out of the car and looked, first at the bodies, then up at them.