When She Was Bad Part 20

"Are you all right? Where are they? Did they hurt you? Do they have your car?"

"Too many questions. Just lemme...a couple more minutes, lemme sleep a couple more minutes." She rolled over onto her side, facing the back of the couch, and drew her legs up.

"Irene! Wake up, Irene, I need you to wake up now."

His hand was on her shoulder, shaking her. How rude, she thought, covering her ears with her palms and resuming the fetal position. But it was no use-her head was starting to throb, her back and knees ached, and her neck felt like she'd spent twenty minutes in the ring with Hulk Hogan.

"Did they drug you?" Pender was saying. "Slip you a mickey, something like that? Should I call an ambulance?"

"No!" For some reason, the suggestion alarmed her. "No ambulance." She rolled over onto her back, swung her legs off the couch, and tried to sit up. The blood rushed from her head; the room swam.

"Take it easy, I've got you." Pender helped her lie back down, positioned a throw pillow under her head. "How about a doctor-is there a doctor I can call?"

"I am a doctor," said Irene, almost pouting.

"Okay, doctor." Pender pulled the side chair over to the couch to sit on. "Would you please tell me what the h.e.l.l happened here?"

Irene sat up again-slowly, this time-and was surprised to find she was still wearing Frank's pajamas. "They must have slipped something into my orange juice," she told Pender. Nor would finding that something have been very difficult. They'd only have had to go as far as the medicine cabinet in the upstairs bathroom-in the last six years, Irene had self-prescribed, with varying degrees of success, every sleeping medication known to G.o.d, man, and GlaxoSmithKline. "I thought it tasted kind of bitter."

"When was that? Do you know when they left here?"

"One quesh'n at a time," said Irene, slurring like a ham actor playing a drunk.

"Sorry. How long ago did they leave?"

"What time is it now?"

"A little after eight."

Leaning forward, ma.s.saging her pounding temples with her fingertips: "A.M. or P.M.?"

"P.M."

Come back to me, little brain, thought Irene, working at the math. "Eight, ten hours?"

"In your car?"

"If it's gone."

"Do you know your license plate number?" asked Pender, taking his cell phone out of his pocket.

"I think so. Who are you calling?"

"The police," Pender explained gently. "So they can update the BOLO."

"That won't be...necessary." Irene was proud of having come up with the word-for a few seconds there it had been touch and go.

"Why not?"

"Because..." Blank. Blank mind. Because what? What was the question? Oh, right. Yes, of course: "Because there's only one place they could have gone."

"Where's that?" asked Pender-but Irene appeared to have nodded off again. "I'd better go make you some coffee," he said.

"Good idea," Irene mumbled. "Make some for me, too."

6.

Lily dressed hurriedly. On her way out of the cabin she saw Lyssy's snubnosed revolver lying atop his 501s, at the foot of the bed. She s.n.a.t.c.hed it up almost as an afterthought and stuffed it into the waistband of her Guess?'s, then tiptoed barefoot across the clean-swept boards, opened the door, and closed it ever so quietly behind her.

The pocketapocketapocketa grew louder; Lily waved from the covered porch as the open-sided, open-roofed contraption her grandfather had always referred to as the mule came chugging up the dirt road leading in from the highway. A skeletal vehicle with small rubber tires lined up four on each side, a frame of welded pipes supporting a bench seat up front and a railed wooden flatbed mounted over a noisy, sputtering gasoline engine in back, the mule was one of the few motorized vehicles capable of traversing the steep-sided canyons and narrow, deeply rutted trails of La Guarida.

"Hola, Tio Fano!"

"Mija!" The driver, a small brown man with a bowl haircut, parked the mule a few yards in from the edge of the fan-shaped clearing, next to the beige Infiniti. Wearing a denim s.h.i.+rt, once-white trousers, and open-toed sandals, he hopped down from the cab and approached Lily with both arms outstretched and his leathery features contorted into a mask of tragedy.

She hurried down the steps and across the clearing. The ground was bare save for a spa.r.s.e, limp growth of thin-bladed gra.s.s. She held out her hand; he took it in his weathered, work-callused hands and squeezed gently, as if he were giving her a blessing. "Pobrecita. I'm so sorry-my heart is..." His vocabulary failed him (Spanish was his second language, English his third); he let go her hand and pressed his fist against his sternum.

"Mine, too," said Lily, her mind racing. Fano, an ageless, undoc.u.mented Guatamalan Indian who lived in a shack on the far side of the northern rim of the canyon, had been the caretaker here for as long as Lily could remember. Somehow she had forgotten all about him when she suggested using La Guarida as a temporary refuge.

And now he held her and Lyssy's future in his hand. Although there was nothing in Fano's greeting or demeanor to indicate that he knew she was a fugitive, Lily couldn't discount the possibility entirely. But if he did know, would she have the courage, the wherewithal, to do what Lilith had once done? Could she kill someone in cold blood? Someone who'd never done her a lick of harm-someone she liked?

The answer was no, of course not. But the fact that she was even able to consider the possibility told Lily how much she had changed since this morning. It wasn't just that she'd finally made love-no one knew better than Lily DeVries that there was nothing illuminative or magically transformative about the s.e.x act in and of itself; if there had been, she'd have been enlightened by the age of four.

But overcoming such a monumental blockage after a lifetime of suffering flashbacks, panic attacks, and alter switches at the mere thought of s.e.x-now that was empowering, as Dr. Irene might have said. And never mind that she'd only been able to accomplish it by pretending to be Lilith-after all she'd been through, Lily was finally beginning, if not to accept completely, then at least to consider, what Dr. Irene had been telling her for years, and had reiterated only that morning: that the alters were not others. That Sunny Lemontina's anger was her anger, the unnamed little girl's flight into autism was her flight, Lilah's s.e.xual desires were her desires, and most important, that Lilith's capabilities were her capabilities as well.

"The place is looking pretty good," she heard herself saying-one of her grandfather's stock greetings for Fano.

"Gracias. Senor Rollie came down last week, he told me whatever...how you say, acuerdo?"

"Agreement, arrangement."

"Si, agrangement-whatever agrangement I have with your abuelo, now I got with him." He started to tell her something else, then caught himself.

Lily thought she had a reasonably good idea what it was. "Did-did my uncle happen to mention anything about me?"

"About you?"

Lily couldn't remember ever having felt so present as she did at the moment. She was intently aware of her surroundings: the sunset stillness in the clearing; the pale green, failing light through the towering redwoods, their feathery tops disappearing into the gloaming like so many Jack's beanstalks; the feel of the dirt beneath her bare feet and the cold metal of the revolver pressing against her bare belly; the sound of the creek off to her right; and the sweet, loamy smell of the surrounding forest.

But even with her senses fully engaged, Lily's mind was running as clear and cold as the creek, focused in laser sharp on Fano, noting the sideways s.h.i.+ft of his eyes, the uneasy shuffle of sandals in the dirt. "Please, Fano, what did he tell you?"

"Just you ran away from home, and if you show up down here, I suppose to call him."

Okay, could have been worse, thought Lily. "Is that really all he said, Fano? He didn't mention I'd had a nervous breakdown or anything?"

"Que?"

"Loco-that I was loco en la cabeza?" She twirled a forefinger at her temple.

Fano was shuffling his sandals again, looking like the man in the TV commercial whose wife had just asked him, Does this make me look fat? "He just say you very...disturb?...about what happen, and everybody very worry about you."

"What if I asked you not to tell him I was down here?"

"Por que?"

"If I tell you, you have to promise you won't tell Uncle Rollie."

The shoulders of Fano's denim works.h.i.+rt rose in what might have been either a shrug of agreement, or a let's hear what you have to say first.

Lily took a deep breath. "Okay, here's the thing-I didn't come down here alone. I'm here with my boyfriend. Uncle Rollie doesn't like him-he'll do anything to keep us apart. And if he finds out we're here, there's no telling what he might do. He might have him arrested, or put me away in a mental hospital, or both."

She leaned closer, locked eyes with him. "Please, Tio Fano-haven't you ever been in love?"

The clearing was nearly dark by now, the redwoods outlined black against the greenish glow of the sky. "Si," he said softly. "Very much."

"Tell me."

He was staring directly at Lily, but no longer seeing her. "One day they came to our village," he said, his voice steady, a distant look in his eyes. "Men with guns, men with big..." He shoved the air with both hands palm forward, bent upward at the wrist. "How you say, empujatierra?"

"Earth movers-bulldozers."

"Si, bulldozers. To knock down our village. I say you cannot do this. Their head man, he say who are you, the jefe, the big chief? I say I am alcalde of this village. Bueno, he say, an' strike me"-he mimed a diagonal blow with a rifle b.u.t.t-"here." He pushed his hair back from his temple to show Lily the scar. "I wake up under a pile of dead bodies with the smell of gasolina in my nose. Lucky for me, after they light the fire, they leave for the next village. Only I am left alive. I crawl from under the pile, but there is no water to put out the fire, because when they knock down a village, they also destroy the village wells, so n.o.body can build a village there again.

"So I start to pull the bodies off the pile. Then I find mi esposa, my wife. She was very much embarazada-" Lily was confused for a second; then he traced the curve of a swollen belly in front of his own flat stomach, and she remembered that in Spanish, they used the same word for embarra.s.sed and pregnant. "I said my last prayer that day-that mi querida, she was already dead when those men, they cut the baby out from her stomach and throw it on the pile."

Darkness had crept over the canyon. High in the redwoods, an owl hooted, deep-toned and trembly; a throaty roar in the distance reminded Lily that there were still plenty of mountain lions left in the barranca. She didn't realize she was crying until Fano reached out and wiped a tear from her cheek. "Senor Rollie, he coming down Monday to meet with the man from PG&E to see how much money it cost to run the electricidad in from the highway. So a gift of two days, three nights, that is all that is in my power to give to you and your querido. Accept it with my love, por favor." Fano bowed formally from the waist, then turned and started back across the clearing to the waiting mule.

"Gracias," called Lily.

"De nada, mija," he said over his shoulder, and at that instant, four things happened in such quick succession that afterward Lily would remember them as occurring simultaneously: She heard a loud popping sound behind her; something invisible zzzz'd past, disturbing the air; a cloud of birds rose up startled from the trees; Fano threw up his arms as though overcome by a sudden urge to shout hallelujah.

Then, as Lily screamed and the cloud of birds wheeled off angrily into the dusk, Fano dropped to his knees, swayed there for a moment, and pitched face forward onto the bare ground.

7.

"Irene, I'm not taking you with me," said Pender. The two were seated across from each other at the round maple-topped kitchen table, under the rose-pink glow of a stained-gla.s.s chandelier shaped like a tulip. "It's much too dangerous."

After her shower, Irene had changed into a pair of roomy black cargo pants with plenty of loops and snaps and pockets, a navy pullover, and a pair of black-on-black Chuck Taylor high-tops; her damp hair was wrapped in a high towel turban. "Wrong, wrong," she said, making two check marks in the air; she had just finished her second cup of high octane dark roast. "One: you have to take me with you-otherwise I won't tell you where they are, not that you could find it by yourself even if I did. And two: you're exaggerating the threat level. Lyssy's frightened and confused, but he's not dangerous."

"Oh really?" Pender's big bald head, rosy in the glow of the chandelier, wagged stubbornly from side to side. "Try telling that to Mick MacAlister."

"That was self-defense. If MacAlister hadn't gone for his gun he'd still be alive-you told me that. But as far as shooting someone in cold blood? If Lyssy were capable of that, we'd both be..." Her voice trailed off as a new possibility occurred to her. "Oh, no! Please say it ain't so, Pen."

"Okay, I'm lost." He spread his hands helplessly. "What am I supposed to say ain't so?"

"That you were planning to just...gun him down. Sneak up on him and gun him down. That that's why you don't want me there this time around-you don't want any witnesses."

Pender had to force himself to keep his eyes trained on hers. "I'm not saying that's not an option-I mean, if the opportunity presents itself. But if that looks to be the safest way to get Lily out of that cabin unharmed, your being there or not is not going to make a difference one way or the other."

"But it will!" Irene exclaimed. "I can talk to them-they'll listen to-" Then, with a sinking feeling: "Hold on, Pen-I never said anything about a cabin."

"Not until now. But don't feel bad-I was about seventy-five percent sure when you said I couldn't find it on my own anyway. I'm thinking, that's got to be out in the wilderness someplace-which would account for why they ransacked your kitchen. Then I remembered about...what did Lyman and Dotty call that place? El Guard-o, something like that?"

Irene's fingernails dug painfully into her palms. Don't be too hard on yourself, she thought-he's a cop, this is his metier. "Please, Pen-I owe it to Lily to be there. If I'd fought for her a little harder in the first place, she wouldn't be in the situation she's in. I let that child down once-I won't do it a second time."

On the off chance she was bluffing, Pender countered with a bluff of his own. "You're not leaving me much of a choice," he said, slowly removing his cell phone from his pocket. "I have to call in the cops-they'll be able to figure out where the cabin is."

"No!" Irene raised her voice for the first time. "If you bring in the police, it's going to be Bonnie and Clyde all over again."

"We don't know that." Even more slowly, Pender's sausage-thick fingers drew out the antenna. "There are plenty of nonlethal alternatives-tear gas, flash-bang grenades, Tasers, rubber rounds. Deadly force is always supposed to be a last resort in these situations."

Irene sneaked a peek at Pender over the rim of her half-empty cup. Between the cold shower and the hot coffee, she was starting to feel more like herself again. And more critically, to think like herself again. "Okay, well, you're the expert," she said. "If you think calling the police is the best thing to do, who am I to question you?"

"All right, then." He pretended to press the green Call b.u.t.ton, then stared down at the phone in his palm, waiting for her to fold.

"That's a nine followed by two ones," Irene prompted.

"Ah, s.h.i.+t." Pender jammed the antenna closed against his palm and dropped the phone back into his pocket. "Remind me never to play poker with you."

8.

Lily stared in horrified disbelief as Fano's lower limbs twitched feebly for a few seconds, like a frog in a biology experiment; then he was still. Behind her, she heard hollow, uneven footfalls crossing the porch, descending the plank steps. The clearing spun dizzily around her; she felt the strength draining from her legs, and had to squat on her hams to keep from toppling over.

"Why?" she moaned as Lyssy approached her, holding Mick MacAlister's stealth-black nine-millimeter pistol at his side. "He wasn't going to say anything-he gave me his word."

"Better safe than sorry," he replied, his voice high-pitched and almost cheerful as he stuffed the pistol into the waistband of his jeans, then reached down and helped her to her feet.

"But-but he was my friend."

"News flash, baby: we don't have any friends anymore, except each other." He glanced from the body lying facedown in the dirt, to the cabin window from which he'd fired, and back again, estimating the distance. "You have to admit, that was one h.e.l.l of a shot." Then, offhandedly: "He didn't have any family, did he? Or a girlfriend, somebody who's going to notice he's among the missing?"