It took me a minute to regain what little composure I had left. Once I was calm enough to function, I saw the cell phone in the cup holder, with which I dialed 911 and said enough to get somebody out there before abruptly hanging up. Marky was going to be okay, or at least as okay as possible, considering. That accomplished, I dug into that dead bastard’s wallet to see what it could tell me. And the first thing it told me was that I’d just killed Jack Parson’s grandson.
Gary Alan Parson, to be precise. Height, 5’9”. Eyes, brown. Hair, brown. Age, 44. He was never going to be 45. I could hardly wait to tell that to his mother’s face.
The address listed on the dead man’s license was in El Centro, in Imperial Valley. Luck was with me insofar as there was a road map in the glove box that would get me there. The needle on the gas gauge indicated three-quarters of a tank in the Saab. I looked at my hands on the wheel in the dim green light of the dash and they looked like they were only dirty, rather than sticky with Marky’s blood. I felt my gorge rise a little. I didn’t want to see any more blood, mine or anybody else’s.
But I was damn ready to end this. I jerked the stick into drive and hit the gas.
40
Angel of the Abyss wrapped after four more shooting days. They were tense and largely quiet days. They were days without Grace.
Saul and Jack scrambled to shoot around a double, hastily hired through an agency. The girl had a vague resemblance once her hair was cut to match Grace’s bob, but there wouldn’t be another close-up, another frame to capture Grace’s emotive face. She was gone.
Saul kept a key to her bungalow, since he paid for it, and wasted no time letting himself in on the afternoon of her first missed day. Nothing was missing, nothing amiss. The watch he’d given her, her wardrobe, the telephone he installed for her. And not so much as a note to thank him for all he’d done, for his exhaustive efforts to make her more than merely Gracie Baronsky. More than just a girl. All those weeks it was Jack he worried about, but somehow along the way he’d managed to straighten up and fly right. In the end, it was Saul’s protégé who failed him.
He ordered the bungalow cleaned out by the end of the week.
The pressure of incumbent stardom deemed too much for the poor thing, went one of the hushed rumors blazing around the set and through somber speakeasy conversations at night. Hiding out back home — where was it? Iowa? Maybe under an assumed name.
Others cast the blame on the Communist apprentice electrician. Privately, such was Saul Veritek’s assumption. Eloped…or worse. Who could say? They had a production to finish. The picture business didn’t wait around for anybody.
Such were the vagaries of Hollywood.
41
Imperial Valley was about 220 miles from Culver City, which made for a four-hour drive. I drove south along the coast and the sun was just starting to come up over the horizon, burning down over the Pacific from mountains in the east, when I was north of San Diego. The water sparkled blue and orange and the air was so fresh I realized how bad it had been up in L.A. From there I went east on I-8 with the sun in my rearview mirror.
I filled the tank back up west of La Mesa and used the sanitary wipes by the pump to finally get the blood off my hands. The knuckles on my left hand were red and raw from where I’d twice punched the late Gary Parson to death. I idly wondered how much trouble I was going to be looking at once this was all finished, for his death and the theft of his car. And for whatever I was going to have to do once I reached El Centro. I got a couple packs of Parliaments and a tall cup of crappy convenience store coffee for the road, and then I went to find out what that was.
In front of a midsized Spanish-style house a few blocks south of the town’s country club, I sat in the idling Saab and waited for someone to notice me. The curtains were all drawn and there weren’t any cars in the drive. The yard was impeccably manicured, the grass greener than any real grass, perfectly squared hedges bordering the small property. I smoked three cigarettes in a row while I watched the house, hoping Gary didn’t permit it in his ride, and even took the time to put one of them out on the upholstery, just for kicks.
As I lit a fourth I started to worry I’d come all this way for nothing, though I’d known that was a risk. It was the only lead I had so I ran with it. And since nobody saw fit to come out to me — if in fact anyone was in the house at all — I killed the engine, left the key in the ignition, and limped out of the car so I could go to them.
Rather than ring the bell, I went around the side of the house, edging up against the hedges, and came into the equally well-kempt backyard. A red and yellow plastic tricycle was turned over on its side on the grass. I didn’t like that, but I took the gun from my pocket anyway. I’d come all the way across the country to work with a stranger’s equipment, and it seemed like that was just what I was about to do. It was just a different kind of machine than I was used to. My machines back in Boston restored the dead to their former glory; the one in my hand now was purposed for quite the opposite effect.
A box window in the kitchen jutted out with potted plants pressing against the glass. There was also a small patio extending away from a clean plate glass sliding door. I couldn’t see through the glass; the morning sun threw a glare that made it impenetrable. My left hand tightened around the grip of the gun and I wondered how well I’d be able to shoot with my southpaw. Trouble was, I’d never fired a gun with my right hand, either. And my right still wasn’t in the mood to make a proper fist, much less squeeze a trigger.
I lingered at the corner, out of view of the windows, mulling this over. My aim was going to be shit, my visibility was nil, and I hadn’t the slightest idea who was inside or what they were going to do when they saw me. I was sweating beneath my bandage and my right foot was starting to tingle like it does when it falls asleep. A one man-army I was not.
My solution was simple and, I guess, a bit on the dramatic side: I lurched into the backyard, took aim at the sliding glass door, and fired a shot that obliterated it in a noisy explosion of glass.
Ta-da.
I wanted to create confusion and panic, and judging by the frenzied shouts that came from within the house I decided I was successful. As fast as I could, I moved past the destroyed door and pushed up against the siding. I was waiting for someone to come out to investigate or, failing that, to kill me. I’d had enough time on the drive down to give some thought to my feelings about killing, and I came to the conclusion that I didn’t care for it. As worthless a human being that murdering bastard in the warehouse was, it still disturbed me that I was responsible for somebody’s death. For that reason my plan was clear in my otherwise foggy head — the second I saw someone come through that door, I was going to shoot them in the leg.
Only nobody came through the door. And in the aftermath of the shot, the shattering glass, and the shouts from inside, all I could hear was a woman crying.
Oh for Christ’s sake, Graham, I scolded myself. Don’t tell me you went to the wrong goddamn house.
I felt like running away, or limping as the case would have been. Like getting back in the Saab and getting the hell out of Imperial Valley. Another four damn hours, sure, but I’d go directly to the Hollywood police, march right into Detective Shea’s office, and explain everything. And hope to God I wasn’t looking at some kind of serious charge.