1
One of the strangest things about the city was the sudden way it disappeared around the edges. One minute you were down on Sunset Boulevard surrounded by glass and concrete, and the next thing you knew you were up on Mulholland Drive, alone in the rough country. From a high window or a rooftop almost anywhere in Los Angeles you could see the mountains, and there was always something ravenous up there looking down.
I was up among the hungry creatures, standing at the edge of a cliff, with Hollywood and Santa Monica far below me in the distance. One step forward and I would be in midair. I was looking down and wondering if Haley had considered how suddenly you could go from city to wilderness. Then I wondered if it was a distinction without a difference, if the city might be the wilderness and the wilderness the city, and maybe Los Angeles’s edges seemed to disappear so suddenly because there really was no separation between sidewalks and mountain paths, buildings and boulders. Up in the mountains or down in the city, either way the carnivores were in control.
I imagined Haley, out of her mind, running full speed off the cliff. I wondered what it had been like, that final second or two before she hit. Had she realized what was happening? Did she recognize the city lights below for what they were, or did she really think she was flying toward the stars? And did she think of me?
Stepping closer to the edge, I slid the toes of my shoes into the air. I looked down two hundred feet, toward the spot where she had broken on the rocks. I stood one inch from eternity and tried to imagine life without her. I could not summon up a single reason why I shouldn’t take that final step, except for one. I thought about the kind of animal who would drive someone to do what my wife had done. Predators like that were everywhere. I should know. I had trained for half my life to be one of them. I was hungry, looking down on the city. If I was going to live, the hunger would have to be enough, for now. But I would sink my teeth into him, sooner or later. I would do that for Haley, and for myself, and then maybe it would be my turn to see if I could fly.
I stepped back from the edge.
Studying the ground, I walked slowly back toward the limousine. There were no signs of the trailers or equipment that had been in place that night, or of the people in the production crew. There was no indication anywhere of what had happened. If the police had missed anything useful, nature had removed it. Seven months was a long time in the wilderness.
Still, there was no place else to look, and giving up felt like a betrayal, so I walked around that level place another hour, searching every inch between the cliff edge and the place on the far side of the road where the mountainside continued its steep climb toward the sky. The only signs of humanity were the road itself and the usual things people threw out of the windows of their cars. Finally I got behind the wheel of my Mercedes limo. It was an open question whether I should have been driving. Colors still seemed brighter than normal, and sounds were still too loud. Sometimes I still saw things that most people would agree were not actually there. But I turned the key, pulled onto Mulholland, and descended toward the city anyway.
In an hour I was at the driveway outside Haley’s estate on Newport Harbor. I entered the code on the keypad and watched the massive gates swing open. I followed the winding drive into the estate and parked the limousine between the Bentley and the Range Rover in the garage. I got out and walked across the grounds. I didn’t look at the main house. Her house. Instead, I focused my attention on the flagstone path beneath my feet. When I reached the guesthouse, I went in and crossed the living room and entered the bedroom. I took off my shoes and dropped my shirt and blue jeans where I stood and crawled into bed. It was two thirty in the afternoon.
The next day I had a job, so I got out of bed at nine thirty. The client had been referred by Joel Cantor, one of my regulars who produced a lot of films at Universal Studios. It wouldn’t have been wise to turn down a friend of Mr. Cantor’s. Besides, it was my first job since they released me from the hospital. I had been out a week. I had sent out emails letting my regular clients know I was available again, but none of them had called for a ride. Maybe it was the fact that my last passenger had gone out of her mind and flung herself off a cliff. Maybe it was the fact that I had almost done the same. Whatever the reason, I figured I should take whatever work I could get.
I shaved off three day’s worth of whiskers. You fall out of the shaving habit when they won’t let you have a razor. I took a long hot shower. Then I put on the white cotton shirt and the black suit and the solid black tie that Haley’s man, Simon, had set out for me. In the mirror I looked like a fairly normal specimen. Sandy brown hair, square jaw, clean shaven and true blue. A little taller than average, a little broader in the shoulders, and maybe a little better looking, at least that’s what I had been told by a few women who should know. Maybe not quite up to casting as a leading man, but not bad. More like love interest material in a supporting role.
I adjusted my cuffs and turned away from my reflection to leave the guesthouse and walk underneath the sycamores over to the garage. Again, I didn’t look at the main house.
I selected the stretch Mercedes again and headed back toward Los Angeles. It was a good thing I turned on the radio. They said there was an accident at Beach and the 405, so I took Newport Boulevard to the 5 and then cut back across on the 22.
The traffic made me nervous. It never did that before, but now everything seemed to move in rapid fits and starts. In spite of all the therapy, my nerves still felt as if they had crawled outside my skin. I remembered something I had learned in the hospital. Focus on the truth you know. It was not true that the car beside me was drifting into my lane. It was not true that the car behind me was inching closer, or that the one in front was about to slam on the brakes. It was true that the limousine was whisper quiet, the air conditioning was cool, and I was safe and somewhat sound. So I may have gripped the wheel too tightly, but I persevered. I was good at perseverance.
It took forty-five minutes to reach Inglewood. The hotel was the Renaissance, just north of Century Boulevard and within walking distance of LAX—not that anybody ever walks to the airport, of course. The Renaissance was one of those overnighter places for white-collar travelers with expense accounts who just wanted a meal and a bed and didn’t care about the local color.
I rolled up to the porte cochere and parked front and center. The valet hurried over. The stretch Mercedes had that effect on valets.
Getting out I said, “I’m here for a Mr. Brown.”
The valet nodded and went inside the lobby. A minute later he was back with two men, both of them middle-aged Latinos, both of them wearing blue jeans and running shoes and oversized, plaid shirts with the tails hanging out. I stood waiting by the open rear door.
As they came closer, I saw deep pockmarks on the first one’s cheeks. He seemed to glare at me with sickly yellow eyes. I told myself the hatred in his eyes must be imaginary. I told myself I was okay.
The other one had a strong jaw and high cheekbones. He reminded me of something. Maybe an old photograph of Geronimo.
“Good morning, Mr. Brown,” I said to both of them. “My name is Malcolm Cutter.”
The one with the bad skin ignored me and got into the limo. The second one said, “Thank you,” and followed the first.
As each of them bent to enter the car, I saw bulges underneath their shirttails. I never understood why a man would holster a weapon at the small of his back. It makes sitting in a chair or a car very uncomfortable.
I closed the door, walked around the limo, and got in behind the wheel. Before shifting into drive, I touched the button that lowered the darkly tinted glass between the front and rear compartments.