Trust Me (5 page)

CHAPTER 8

⍫

Ron Pool left the theater and walked to the parking lot.
He unlocked the door to his old Land Rover and stepped up into the seat. In the quiet interior of his car, he closed his eyes and tried to still his thoughts. Instead, they took him back to a particular night in what almost seemed like another person’s past, the end of a twenty-year nightmare, the night of his last drink nearly fourteen years ago. He remembered his first few weeks off booze, the horror of the first sleepless nights, the shaking hands. The thoughts, the guilt, and the pictures that wouldn’t stop.

Driving home, he decided to give Joe Greiner a call.

“Joe. Ron Pool.”

“Hey, Ron, ’sappening?” Joe was at home, probably drinking, never drunk. “Did you get my fax? Eight girls in less than two years, including Marilyn Fenner.”

“I got it. Hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, like they’re in some damn club or something,” Joe said.

“Joe, I’d really like to look at each file, photos and everything. This is worth looking into, and those case summaries aren’t enough to go on.”

“Ron,” the detective replied, “I don’t see it. Matter of fact, I think you’re chasing a dead tale,” and he made a garbled laughing sound that turned immediately into a fit of coughing.

“Jesus, Joe, you get worse all the time.”

“What, this cough? It’s nothin’.”

Ron turned up Beachwood Canyon. “No, I mean your goddamn sense of humor.”

“Come over to the station tomorrow and spend some time with the files. It’s depressing, is all, so I have to make funny to get by, you know?”

He pulled into the driveway of his small canyon home and turned off the engine and the lights. Sitting in the still darkness, he realized how much he liked the cop at the other end of the line.

After a pause, he said, “You okay tonight, Joe? Something getting you down?”

“Naw, fuck no, same old same old.” The Land Rover was still making its cooling off pops and clicks. “Where are you, anyway?”

“I just got home from a lecture. It was good except for the goddamned sales pitch at the end.”

“You like all that New Age shit, don’t you? Me, I think it’s a waste of time.” Ron could hear the clinking of ice cubes through the phone. He pictured Joe at his computer with a bottle of Tanqueray.

“Joe,” Ron said, “you know what they say about contempt prior to investigation. I like to go out there like the world is a big banquet and I can pick a little of this and a little of that and come back with some useful information. It’s kind of like digging for gold.”

“More like scrounging in the fuckin’ dump, if you ask me,” Joe replied. “Hey, I’ll bet these New Age shindigs have great looking chicks, am I right?”

“Well, now that you mention it . . .”

“Yeah, contempt prior to investigation my ass. Hey, Ron, catch me tomorrow—my inner child has to take a piss.” Ron heard a chuckle and a click, and then there was nothing but the sound of a solo cricket chirping in the darkness.

CHAPTER 9

⍫

Jeff woke for the fourth time and decided this time he would get up.
He had made the same decision earlier, but then revoked it because it was dark outside—too early, he had thought, and had gone back to sleep.

For some reason, the sun wasn’t up yet. Puzzled, he looked at his clock and saw that it was 9:30—he had slept all day. His cell phone said that he had twelve messages. Usually that was good news; it meant people were ready to do business. Right now, though, it filled him with dread. He ignored it and left the ring volume off.

He realized that he was still dressed. Gradually, the pieces of the previous three days began to assemble themselves, culminating in his arrival home from Rich’s at nine in the morning. God, what a nightmare. He must have fallen asleep right away.

He stripped and made his way through the dark room to the bathroom, where he finally turned on the light. Squinting in the bright illumination, he turned on the shower, waited for the hot water, and stepped in. The water felt good as he let it beat on his face—he had a moment of pure luxury before the reality of his situation began to filter into his thoughts.

Aiming straight down between his feet, he urinated into the drain for what seemed like forever. He was lightheaded from hunger and knew he needed to eat so he could think more clearly. Several things were very clear to him: that Lilah could cause him a lot of trouble if she talked, that he was short on the San Francisco investment now that most of it was in Rich’s carpet, and that the messages on his phone were probably mainly angry calls from Rich. And that none of it mattered: only Marilyn mattered now.

He cleaned up, then dried off and dressed in jeans and, because it was still hot, a tee shirt. The shirt was white with a logo on it that said Channel Island Surfboards. He chose a contact from his phone’s list and thumbed the dial icon.

“Hello?” He heard voices, laughter, and music blaring in the background.

“Gary, hey, it’s me. Gotta see you. Meet me at Pop’s in half an hour; can you make it?” Jeff felt a little shaky—it seemed like a long time since he had talked to anyone.

“Bad timing, man,” Gary said through the noise. “We’re like, ah, already committed, you know?”

What Gary meant was that he had company, probably a friend and a couple of women, and that they had already ingested enough drugs to make leaving the house impractical.

“I’ll make it worth your while, big time. Listen, do something that’ll straighten you out, leave some for the chicks, and tell them you’ll be right back. Really, you’ll be right back.” He knew that Gary was only five minutes from Pop’s, and that Gary’s visitors weren’t going anywhere.

“Worth my while, eh? Well, okay, I’ll see you there,” Gary said, and he hung up.

During the whole conversation, Jeff had been staring at the bag on his desk. Now he pulled out the large zip-lock baggie full of white chunks. He reached in the drawer and got a spatula and then opened the bag. He poked around until a long ridge of flaky powder sat on the flat end of the spatula. He looked at it and thought of the night before at Rich’s, then placed it back in the bag. No, he wasn’t even going to start. In fact, he should probably avoid it for a while, get rid of the whole bag of goodies, maybe even go to Kauai and chill for a while after he had taken care of business. Tonight, he would eat, work with Gary, relax with a couple of drinks, and maybe get back to sleep so he could wake up on a decent schedule.

He pulled an Ohaus triple beam scale from under the desk and carefully weighed the bag. He then inventoried the contents of his briefcase and added the coke to it. He put the inventory list, the cash, and the gun in a false-bottomed waste basket that was filled to the top with nasty trash: beer bottles with cigarette butts in them, Burger King wrappers covered with crusted cheese, and a dried-up apple core.

CHAPTER 10

⍫

Holly walked into the most beautiful living room she had ever seen.
An entire wall was filled with recessed niches, each about twenty inches square and subtly lit from within to display an exotic carving or statuette. She recognized a bronze Kali and a four-armed Shiva, next to which was an African carving with a wooden phallus so massive it looked as if it were about to tip forward. A tapestry depicting a medieval court scene hung above a gleaming grand piano. Four people were present, seated around a marble coffee table. Art led her across the room to them.

“Holly, I’d like you to meet our hosts Joanie and Diane.” Two women stood up and welcomed her. Joanie was a petite blond in her forties, beautiful, thought Holly, and yet unpretentious. Diane was at least six feet tall, with thick black eyebrows and very pale skin. Joanie took Holly’s hand warmly and told her she had come to the right place.

“This,” said Joanie, gesturing toward a thin balding man with very bright eyes sitting on the sofa, “is George . . . and Amy.” George and Amy greeted Holly without getting up—Amy had Tarot cards spread on the table in front of her in five groups of three, Holly noticed, and the rest of the deck in her hand.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Joanie said, “and Amy has been entertaining us with the occult.” She smiled slightly at this, as if amused, and then said, “Perhaps we should do your cards, Art. The hanged man and the tower have figured so prominently for the rest of us—perhaps you are the key.”

“Joanie my dear, you’re still looking for the Mark of the Beast on my forehead, after all these years. The only card that consistently shows up for me is the Fool. Now, Holly, have a seat.” Art gestured for Holly to sit at the end of the sofa next to Amy and then brought a leather wing chair over and sat next to them.

“Those are the strangest-looking cards I have ever seen,” said Holly, peering at a picture of haughty woman on a sled pulled by a leopard, all angles like shards of glass.

“The set was designed and commissioned by Aleister Crowley,” Joanie said.

“Who is that?” asked Holly.

“The most brilliant psychopath of the twentieth century. A nasty man,” said Art. “I have no taste for anything he produced except these brilliant images.”

“Art, you have every book he ever wrote in your library,” Joanie said.

“Of course. It’s necessary to explore the darkest corners of the human heart. The path to wellness must always begin with recognition of sickness.”

George put out his hand, palm forward, and intoned solemnly, “A riddle.” The party looked toward George expectantly. He wore a black silk shirt buttoned to the throat. “What did Madame Blavatsky get when she ate some bad pork?” He suppressed a smirk as he looked around for an answer.

“Uh-oh,” Art said. “Watch out.”

“Tricky Gnosis,” George burst out gleefully.

Everybody groaned and then burst out in laughter. Holly had no idea what they were laughing at or what they were talking about as they chatted on about Theosophists and Yeats and the Golden Dawn, about the Platonic Ideals and Aldous Huxley.

The conversation was interrupted by a small Hispanic woman carrying a tray. She silently placed it upon the table, looked to Joanie for further instructions, and left the room.

“Okay,” said Joanie, “who would like some tea?”

Tea was poured, the cards put away, and the room was silent for a few moments, except for the murmurs of “sugar only,” “yes, that’s perfect,” and “thank you.” Holly took tea and several cookies. She felt comfortable and yet apprehensive, as if something were in the air that everyone was aware of except her.

⍫

Only an hour earlier, after the lecture in Beverly Hills, Art had suggested to Holly that she mingle, and then he led her to a group that was conversing in the lobby. Art merely presented her and said, “Holly. New.” The others introduced themselves. Art told her he would be back soon and disappeared.

A tall man with a gray beard held out his hand and said, “Welcome to SOL.” A student-type in a corduroy jacket told her she was in for the ride of her life if she stuck around.

“I’m not so sure I will stick around,” Holly replied. “I’m certainly not going to spend fifteen hundred dollars to find out what’s next.”

“Holly, what are your aspirations?” asked Frank, the man with the beard.

“I’m an actress.”

“Since you’ve not yet graced the cover of
People
magazine, I imagine you have some measure of success yet to achieve ahead of you, yes?” He looked at her patiently, she thought, and did not seem to expect an answer.

“Holly.” It was the guy in the corduroy, Nick. “How would you feel if you had a suspicion that everything you think you know was wrong? Everything you know about how the world works, about how other people work, what they think, what they are. Like a flat earther just beginning to figure out that something wasn’t right.” He grinned.

“The point,” continued Frank, “is that people come here because they feel stuck in the problem that is their life, but are unwilling to admit that, at the most fundamental level, their thinking is the problem.”

“Yeah,” said Nick, “who wants to give up their thinking? It’s all we know.”

“Yet what you know may be entirely false,” added Frank, “and what you think you know generates what you call reality. Talk about staying stuck. There’s no way out of the box.”

Holly looked around for Art. She wished he would come back, yet she was angry with him for abandoning her to this onslaught.

“I just came here out of curiosity. Who said I was stuck?”

“Oh yes, the retreat into ‘I’m okay, my life is fine, I’m just auditing this deal like I’m auditing the rest of life.’” Nick was derisive. “Okay, a riddle. What do you call a sound that you’ve heard ever since you were born?”

“I have no idea,” Holly retorted.

“Silence. You would call it silence because it would be the threshold below which you can never hear anything new. The sound of the chatter of your own thinking is what you think is silence. Think of the possibilities of what you’re missing.”

“It all seems very arrogant,” Holly told him. “You’re all talking to me like I’m an infant.”

“That’s the point, Holly.” Frank was lighting a pipe as he spoke. “I was, figuratively speaking, an infant before I did this work. Tenured professor of philosophy at a university, three published books, lecture tours, educated at Harvard and Cambridge, and yet I was an infant. So we’re not here to insult you. We’re here to invite you to step through the door, make a commitment, trust someone, and let life become a constant surprise.”

At that point Art had returned and, taking her by the elbow, guided her to the exit. She turned to see the group smiling beatifically at her. Frank gestured a goodbye with his pipe.

“Do you know who that is?” Art asked her.

“Not a clue,” she replied, biting her tongue at the choice of words.

“That is Frank Dixon. His book is number one on the
New York Times
bestseller list.”

“Yeah, so he can afford to blow fifteen hundred bucks.”

“Actually, Holly, he finished the book after completing the work in SOL. He came here three years ago in a suicidal depression, incapable of facing his computer screen.”

They were outside. Art’s green Jaguar was parked right in front of the theater—she hadn’t noticed it earlier.

“Holly,” Art turned toward her and placed his hands on her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length, “I’d like you to come with me to visit some very special people. Will you join me now?”

⍫

Holly sipped her tea and reflected on the drive through the narrow, twisting roads of Stone Canyon, past the huge walled and gated estates, and up into the hills. They had finally come to a wrought-iron gate set in ivy-covered brick walls. Art had pushed a button and announced himself; the gate swung open and they continued up a driveway that was at least a city block long. There was a fountain in the middle of a circular drive in front of the house.

“Holly,” Art broke into her thoughts like a wake-up call. “Still with us?”

“I’m sorry. I was thinking how lovely the house is.”

“Holly, we’re all going to stand up now, and I’d like you to join us.” Art reached for her hand. She put down the cup of tea and stood.

The others joined in a circle and Joanie took her other hand.

“We are here to save our lives,” Joanie intoned.

“We are here to save our lives,” the others repeated.

“We must trust,” said Joanie.

“We must trust,” they echoed.

“Surrender,” Joanie’s hand gave Holly’s a little squeeze.

“Surrender,” she joined in the reply.

Art broke from the group and brought the ottoman that matched the wing chair into the middle of their circle.

“Holly, I’d like you to stand up on this for us,” he told her as he offered his hand in support.

“Why?” she asked, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Because this is the beginning. Your entry into the work. I absolutely guarantee your safety.” He took her hand and helped her step up on the ottoman.

She stood awkwardly, feeling naked and exposed. The others moved so that Art and Diane were in front of her and to her left, George and Amy to her right, and Joanie, who stood back a few paces, was facing her.

“Now, Holly, if you would close your eyes,” Art suggested softly.

“Holly,” Joanie began, “I am going to take you on a guided meditation. When I tell you to fall, I want you to fall straight forward. Keep your eyes closed—we will catch you. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Holly replied, but she kept her eyes shut and made no move to step down.

“I hear you,” said Joanie. “You don’t want to do this. I’ve got that. Now, you are walking up a road through a beautiful mountain forest. The trees are tall and full and green against the clear blue sky. It is very peaceful. Ahead, to your right, is an old stone wall. It is about ten feet tall. There is a castle beyond it. Something is very wrong. The castle is being demolished.”

Holly stood still, actually seeing the trees and the wall, and felt a sudden anxiety that danger approached.

“You begin to walk more quickly. Over the wall you glimpse a monster. It is half beast and half machine. It has destroyed the castle and is tearing down the wall. You begin to run. Without looking back, you know it is chasing you. The road ends at a meadow; you run through tall grass and flowers. When you look back, you see that where the beast has run there is only scorched desert. You run to the end of the meadow—the edge of a cliff is before you. You look down and can see only a shimmering golden fog. Behind you is destruction. It is time, Holly, to jump.”

Holly, standing with her arms outstretched like a highdiver, eyes still closed, shook her head in a small tremor and said, “I can’t.”

“Why not?” asked Art.

“I just can’t.”

“Holly, tell me what you’re feeling right now,” he persisted.

“I’m feeling . . . panic. Anger. I feel like this is some of the silliest bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

“I hear you, but that is not a feeling. Stay with your feelings, Holly. Where are you feeling this panic?”

She concentrated for a moment. “In my neck.”

“Where else?” Art prodded.

“In my jaw and my shoulders. And I have a headache.”

“A headache. Where is your headache?”

“In my head, goddammit, where else do you get a headache?” Holly snapped.

“In the front of your head?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“About an inch in from my forehead.”

“How wide is it. How thick?” Art persisted.

“It goes from temple to temple. Maybe an inch thick.”

“Does it have a shape?”

“Yes, it’s oval.” Holly was entirely inwardly focused.

“Does it have a color?” Art’s voice was gentle but persuasive.

“Yes. It’s orange. No, it’s changing. It’s bluish.”

“How big is it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s getting smaller.”

“How about your jaw, your neck and shoulders?”

Holly moved her shoulders and turned her head left and right. “They feel okay. I’m okay.”

“And your head? Do you still have a headache?”

“No. No, I feel fine.” She flexed her fingers as though they had just begun working.

“Okay,” Joanie resumed, “you are standing at the edge of the cliff. There is nothing but destruction behind you. Ahead is a golden mist. All you need to do is fall into it. There is nothing to lose. It is quite beautiful.”

With no intention of cooperating, Holly felt herself pitch forward and then, after the briefest second of flight, she was picked out of the air by five pairs of hands and gently lowered to the floor. A sob welled up from deep in her gut; it came out like a bellow but she didn’t care. She had a vision, first of gemstones glinting from the bottom of a mountain stream, then of a child, herself at six years old. She was looking at a man squatting, pointing a camera at her. She saw herself through the camera, and then the picture tilted to a crazy angle. A brilliant light flashed.

Holly lay on the floor and wept, effortlessly and unrestrained.

The others knelt around her, hands still on her body. After a moment she turned over and sat up.

“Holly,” Art began, “what did you see?”

“Jewels. Jewels in water.”

“Ah. Very nice. What else?”

“Me,” she said. “I saw myself. Someone was taking a picture of me. But then I was looking through the camera at myself when I was little.”

“Yes?” Art encouraged. He handed her a handkerchief.

“Then the picture tilted.” She cocked her head at an angle. “I think I fell over.”

“Who fell?”

“I must have.”

“Who fell?” Art commanded.

“Daddy fell.”

“Why did he fall?” Art asked, almost in a whisper.

“He fell because he was drunk.” She cried and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.

“Yes,” said Art, as he lightly brushed the bruise under her eye, “Daddy fell because he was drunk.”