Crowe hadn’t heard about the deaths, obviously; but it was only a matter of time. If he didn’t pick up a paper and see one of his mandalas implicated in a ritual killing, then the police themselves were bound to come to him, asking his opinion. He was the mandala expert, after all. Someone might remember him leaving with the Renzlers after his lecture. The cops would work all that together, weaving a trap that Michael and Lenore and maybe even Crowe himself might never escape. Their alibis—the truth itself—sounded like sheer madness.
No, it wouldn’t do to stay around Crowe much longer. If he couldn’t help them, then he would only harm them. And they’d be bringing trouble on his head if the cops found out they’d stayed here even one night.
He left Lenore in the kitchen and started packing their bags. They could check out the motel a few blocks up the street, or—better yet—move on to someplace farther from Crowe. But they had to move quickly. It had cost more to cross the country than he’d expected, but the remaining cash would last a few weeks if they found the right place. Best of all would be a temporary living situation, with some roommates; and then he had to think about getting a job. All that would take time. And it hinged on Lenore’s stability. The mandalas could return at any moment; this was just a lull, he felt, a moment of peace before they returned. He hated to mention that possibility to Lenore. She’d had plenty of lucid moments in the last few days, but none of them had lasted. The mandalas weren’t going to give her up so easily.
The door of Crowe’s bedroom clicked open, and the man made a dash for the bathroom, blinking over at Michael as if startled to see him. Michael peeked into the kitchen.
“Crowe’s up,” he said. “I’m just going to run this stuff up to the car. Why don’t you get ready?”
“What’s the rush?” she said.
“Lenore… just do it, all right?”
She gave him a blank look. He realized her eyes were not on him at all, but fixed in the air above his head.
Here it comes… he thought, and headed for the door.
It was a windy day, fog blowing over the tops of the tall apartment buildings, setting the signs of Chinese restaurants swinging, shaking the little plastic pennants strung outside corner stores. To Michael it felt warm by comparison to the climates they’d left behind. He walked slowly up the street, under the weight of their bags, in no mood to enjoy the atmosphere of San Francisco. Fisherman’s Wharf, Coit Tower, the Golden Gate Bridge. How could he care about any of these things? Besides, none of them were visible from here. Derek Crowe lived in a seedy neighborhood. Half the people coming down the street toward him looked like junkies or bums, their faces scabbed and sunburned, hair all matted, their ragged clothes dark with grime. The others on the sidewalk wore business suits, moving briskly through the slower-moving pedestrians as if they occupied two different worlds. He didn’t trust either group, didn’t fit in here.
He rounded the corner where he’d parked the car and came to a sudden stop.
A meter maid stood by the Beetle, writing a ticket.
He crossed the street as fast as he could, heading for the motel.
That’s it, he thought. That’s how it starts. They’ll run a check on the car. Maybe they’ll stake it out, wait to see who comes for it. Even if it doesn’t happen yet, it will.
We’ve got to dump the car. Smartest of all would be to just ditch it here. There’s nothing in it that we can’t live without. But it’s too close to Crowe, and I don’t want to drag the guy into this. We’re just going to have to hurry.
He was panting by the time he reached the motel. It was an old motor court, looking weirdly out of place among the tenements and office buildings. It had been refurbished, repainted, given a trendy face-lift—Route 66 nostalgia. The no light was off in the vacancy sign. He dragged his bags into the office and soon had a key.
All the units were built facing a courtyard with a kidney-shaped swimming pool. There were palm trees in big cement planters, leaves skritching in the fog, and country music coming from a bar across the patio. He climbed the steps to the balcony and found the door to their room. Just then the sun came peering through the gray swirls of mist—white and watery, but still the sun.
“Fuckin’ A,” he said, suddenly elated, a big grin breaking out of nowhere, like the sun through the fog. “California!”
32
Derek Crowe wandered into the kitchen, combing his wet thinning hair, looking awkward in a bathrobe. Lenore couldn’t help but think of the picture on his book, Crowe wrapped in a gimmicky cape. This was the real Crowe. Still, the mandala
presence was strong around him. There was a solid core to the man, a presence that transcended his crowded kitchen and the cramped apartment. He was, like her, being looked after. It was with a feeling of wordless solidarity that she poured him a cup of coffee and handed it to him. He looked surprised and pleased.
“Thank you,” he said. “I imagine you’re hungry. I don’t have much in the house, but you’re welcome to it.”
“I’m fine,” she said, sitting at the table. He smiled nervously, then sat down across from her.
“Did you sleep well?”
There wasn’t time for small talk. It was essential that they not waste a single moment together. “Mr. Crowe, I’m worried about Michael.”
He looked hesitant. “He—I’d say he’s worried about you.”
Lenore snorted. “I’m a strong person. I’ve been through a lot, enough to toughen me. I can take almost anything. But Michael—it’s not only that he’s weaker… it’s that… have you seen his mandala?”
Derek smiled uncomfortably. “Now, Lenore, I don’t have that—ah, ability.”
“Have they told you anything lately?”
“We haven’t been in touch.”
“Well, I can see them,” she said, convinced that he should know everything she knew. Perhaps that was part of her role here, to put him in touch again with the mandalas; maybe his work was not yet done. “And Michael’s looks sick.”
“Sick? Is that possible?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“You two are both under the misapprehension that I know more about the mandalas than is in my book.”
“I haven’t read your book,” she said flatly. “I know them from direct experience. From moving among them, and with them, and trying to figure out what they want. I know they’re not exactly alive like you and me. You wouldn’t think they could die—but what if they can? What if they have a life cycle of their own? Something so slow they’re practically immortal?”
“A fascinating idea,” he said. “You’re really in communication with the mandalas all the time?”
“Mostly. And it’s hard to tell sometimes, I’ve gotten so used to it. At first it all seemed strange and different, but it’s starting to seem normal now.”
“I’d like to… to ask you about all this sometime,” he said. “Sometime when I can take notes. If you’re going to be around for a while, I mean. Maybe if I put questions to you, you could put them out to—to the mandalas, and they’d give us both the answers. It’s occurred to me, you know, that maybe they’d like me to put out another book.”
“Mr. Crowe—”
“Derek, please.”
“Derek, I think Michael is in some kind of crisis. His mandala is breaking up. I’ve seen others attack it, and it’s weak—maybe too weak to defend itself much longer. If they can kill it, if it can die, then what happens to Michael? I’m afraid for him.”
“Well, I understand that. But the mandalas, almost everything about them, is a mystery, isn’t it? How can we hope to know them so soon, when they’ve only just revealed themselves? You sound as if you’ve been very close to them for a few days, but all that’s done is raised more questions in your mind than I ever thought to ask.”