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　                                            CHAPTER FIVE

                                                  A Rare Rain

12:15 p.m.

Soaked from the drive in the heavy rain from Josh's hangar, Reggie parked the Jeep CJ-5 at the end of Lakeview Drive, where it led down from the ridge near the entrance to the canyon. Shotgun in hand, steamy drizzle blowing around him like a kaleidoscope, he walked to the entrance of Lakeview Ranch. Below the road was another entrance. An engraved wooden sign constructed between two granite stone pillars read: Lakeview Estates. Paley Development, one of the mayor's companies, had developed the project. The residents had a view of the cloud-darkened valley below; as Lakeview Drive traced the ridge, curving and dipping through the foothills, the view never changed.

Reggie passed homes built in the 60s. Big homes with enough land for horses, although few did. Barren land where rock and barrel cactus yards made certain no one had to come out in 120 degree heat to mow the lawn or pull weeds from the planter.

Paley's private road ascended the hill in a straight line for a quarter mile to a monolithic, electronic black iron gate with the initials CP on either side of the break. Reggie figured he'd first see if anyone answered the intercom before scaling the adobe block wall that encamped the residential portion of the ranch.

He pushed the button, waited. He pushed it again. Just as he figured. Paley's dead, Lucilva's not back. House is empty. Good chance to...do what? What was he looking for? Something that might fulfill Otto's mission. He felt there was something not right. Why hadn't anyone told him Paley was dead and buried? And was it his grave that was robbed? If so, why? The ranch probably wouldn't produce any answers, but it was a good place to start. Reggie looked up the driveway through the gate. A male voice from the intercom said: "Yes? Who is it?"

Reggie rushed back to the silver speaker box.

"Hello?"

"Yes, who is it?"

"Friend of the mayor's, who's this?"

"What can we do for you?"

Reggie didn't recognize the voice. "Here to see Lucilva."

"She's not in at present. Who may I say called?"

"Reggie. When is she expected back?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't have that information."

"Who is this?"

"May I ask what this is regarding, Mr. Thomas?"

Never told him my last name, Reggie thought. "Uh...I have business with her."

A pause lingered long enough for Reggie to wipe rain from his face.

"Mr. Thomas," the man's voice crackled, "may I ask what you are doing with a shotgun?"

Must be a camera hidden somewhere in the wall. Stupid of me to let him see it.

"It belongs to Josh–you know Josh?"

"Certainly."

"It's his. He asked me to bring it to Lucilva."

As soon as the words left his mouth he saw how transparent they were.

"I see."

"What should I do with it?"

"Bring it back tomorrow." Reggie nodded. "Mr. Thomas, where's your car?"

Reggie looked behind him. The long straight road dropped like a flume down the mountain to Lakeview Drive. "Parked it down on the road."

"It's raining?" Reggie looked at the sky awkwardly, wary of this voice in the box. He nodded again. "You could've driven up to the gate." Reggie hesitated but decided not to comment. "Are you sure Miss Paley is expecting you?"

He didn't miss a click, did he? Who was this guy? Better be careful, Reggie told himself.

"Look, I know this seems screwy–the shotgun, parking down the road–it's nothing. Tell her I'll come by tomorrow."

"Will that be with or without the shotgun?"

Just to be difficult, Reggie answered: "Depends on if it's raining."

The hiss of the speaker box went out. Reggie headed back down the long driveway.

The Jeep wouldn't start. The engine wound down until the battery was dead. He walked the rain-freckled blacktop, the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He smelled chimney smoke. Off across the road he heard the snorting and stomping of horses in the mud. The steamy aroma of horseshit hit his nostrils. He wondered what kind of horseshit he might need to sling in the event someone asked why he was up in the estates alone on a rare, rainy afternoon carrying a shotgun.

Before he could come up with a story, the sound of tires whooshed up behind him, then slowed, coming around the corner. Reggie expected them to pick up speed again. They didn't. He turned just as an old pick-up rolled up alongside him. A red-faced man behind the wheel leaned across to the passenger door and swung it open.

"Get in, boy!" he yelled over the rainfall. He didn't appear to mind the shotgun coming into the truck with him.

Reggie slammed the door. "Thanks."

The driver was in his 60s or 70s, hadn't shaved in two or three days, and the gray stubble made his face look like his jowls had been pat with flour. He wore a cowboy hat, a petrified contortion with a rattlesnake band and a yellow halo of sweat-stain circling the brim. His jeans jacket and pants were spotted with dried puke. Reggie could tell it was puke by the smell in the cab.

"What the friggin' hell you doin' out walkin' in this piss?"

He was pretty drunk. His driving seemed fair, except around the curves. He swung the pick-up too wide into the oncoming lane or onto the shoulder of the road. Getting control of the vehicle, he'd say:

"Whoa, Nellie!" Reggie gripped the armrest. "Where're you headed, boy?"

"The Plunge–hey, watch it!"

"Whoa, Nellie!" he laughed, maneuvering the truck back on the road, then pulled a pint of whiskey from between his legs.

"Want a lick?"

"Thanks, no."

The pick-up made its last turn as it approached the lake and the recreation areas in the eastern pocket of town.

"Name's Wallace," the old man said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "November Wallace."

"November. Month you were born, huh?"

"Nope. Born in June. Mother just hated my guts." He hacked and sputtered a laughed. "Twelve gauge," he said suddenly, looking down at the shotgun clamped between Reggie's legs. Reggie nodded.

Lighting a cigarette with a match, Wallace asked: "What's it for?"

"Rabbit hunting."

"Rabbit. Hmm. Guess you ate 'em already." He chuckled.

"No luck," Reggie said. "Wrong weather."

"Yeah, this here’s crazy weather we got. This is the Mojave desert, for cryin’ out loud. If I wanted to live where it rained, I’d’ve moved to Arabia!" He laughed at his joke, took a swig from his bottle, and asked, " Where you stayin' at The Plunge? The Cottages?" Reggie nodded.

"Been here before?"

"Couple times, yeah."

"Like it?"

"Sorta."

Wallace blew smoke into the cab and coughed. "Place stinks, if you want to know. Not always. Just lately. You know who Chris Paley is?"

Reggie pretended to think. "Isn't he the mayor or something–town's named after him, isn't it?"

"You got it. Well, the son-of-a-bitch is deader than dirt."

Reggie hesitated. He didn't want to act too interested.

"My condolences."

"Shit, don't be giving me your gondolas. Buried him yesterday and made me a happy camper. Been drunk ever since."

"You didn't like him, huh?"

"Like him? Who did like the son-of-a-bitch? He was fat. He was greedy. He was a bastard. Kill his own mother for a cheeseburger and fries. Paley didn't get where he got by getting liked. Power. That's what ol' Chris was about. Good old American-made power. Paley owns this town. Every inch. Every teensy-weensy speck of lizard shit has his name on it."

"How'd he die?"

"Choked on his money, I s’pose."

"You don't know?"

"Papers said a stroke."

"So what's going to happen here now?"

He raised his whiskey bottle. "Who the fuck cares, boy?"

"Nobody running the town?"

"Place's a toilet. Who'd want to?"

"Why you keep living here then?"

Wallace flicked the cigarette out the wind wing and answered:

"Because this town's about to get flushed."

Drunks and toilets, Reggie thought.

A shingled hut sat at the entrance to the lake. It was locked up and November drove straight through, stopping at the road that circled The Plunge, itself circled by trees and patches of sandy beaches.

"Left or right?"

"Let me out here."

"Drove you all this way, boy, let me drop you off at the cottage. Which ones?"

"No, that's okay, really, thanks." Reggie opened the door and stepped out. He thanked Wallace again and slammed the door shut. Wallace saluted with his whiskey bottle and turned the pick-up around.

Reggie was stunned. He couldn't believe it. There was a dent over the "F" in Ford. It was the body snatcher! And he was headed out the gate! Reggie scrambled after him. Catching up to the driver's door, he grabbed the handle. He pushed the button, the door swung open and he climbed on the narrow sideboard, leaning back onto the open door for support. He thrust the shotgun into November Wallace's face.

"Park it!" he screamed. "Over there!"

Wallace slammed on the brakes. The pick-up slid for a few feet, sloshed to a stop and jolted Reggie off and into the planter that divided incoming and outgoing traffic.

"What the hell're you doin', boy!" November bellowed. "I ain't got no money, if that's what–"

"Shut up!" Reggie ordered, getting up wet and muddy, trying to catch his breath. "Slide over!"

Wallace slid to the passenger side and Reggie got behind the wheel. He slammed the door shut and jammed the end of the shotgun barrel into Wallace's ribs.

Wallace asked, "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

"Forget who I am. Who are you?"

"I told you, I'm– "

"Why'd you do it?"

Wallace scowled. "Boy, what are you talkin' 'bout?"

"Last night. In the cemetery."

Wallace's eyes crushed together. "Cemetery?"

"You were at the cemetery last night. Don't lie to me. I saw you. What did you do with him?"

Wallace peered deep into Reggie's eyes. "You're on drugs, aren't you?" Reggie poked his ribs with the shotgun. He grunted. "Who're you talkin' 'bout?"

Wallace's face wore a distinct expression of confusion. It looked like honest confusion to Reggie. "Where were you last night?" Reggie asked, unsure but calm.

"None of your damn business." Reggie jabbed the shotgun into his ribs again. Wallace swallowed but kept his face hard. "Don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? You were at the cemetery."

"I don't know where I was! Honest! I was drunk."

"Drunk. Where? Anybody vouch for that?"

"Just me and my puke, boy," he answered and stared at Reggie with an unblinking bleary eye. He grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. Reggie thought he was trying to take it away and almost pulled the trigger, but all Wallace did was push it away from his body. "Drank and fell asleep in the park. Woke up in my truck this morning."

"Who put you there?"

"Hell if I know. Somebody always comes along and puts me in my truck. Everybody in town knows to do that."

"Who's everybody?"

"Boy, you're stupider than you look. Everybody means everybody who knows me. When I get too drunk to drive home, somebody puts me in my truck to sleep it off. I got no designated driver."

"Who put you there last night?"

Wallace looked heavenward. "Dear God," he swore.

Reggie wondered if he'd said too much in his quest for information. What if the old man went to the wrong people? "Never mind," he said. He knew he had to make up a story. "I...I thought you were the guy who...almost ran me over last night."

"Run you over? Hell, I would've stopped if I'd almost run you over. I’d wanna see what kind of asshole I missed." Wallace picked up his whiskey bottle from the floor and took a slug. "What're you doin' out at the cemetery?"

"I wasn't. I was...I was coming down the pass and this pick-up that looked like yours pulled away from there and almost hit me."

Wallace tucked the bottle between his legs. "People in Paley are always borrowin' my truck. As long as they put it back where they found it, I don't mind. They help me, I help them."

"Who had the pick-up last night?"

Wallace smiled. His teeth were black and yellow. "Almost anybody."

Reggie stepped away from the pick-up and slammed the door behind him. With the shotgun resting across the crook of his arm, he waited for Wallace to slide behind the wheel.

"If you remember who had your pick-up last night, would you let me know?"

"Thought you said it looked like my pick-up."

"Yeah, it did. So if you remember, and it turns out it was yours, I can have a little talk with him about his lousy driving habits. It's worth a hundred bucks to me."

Wallace's face was deadpan, sober, and he nodded. "That's a lot of money just to get the chance to give a guy a driving lesson. Beings I don't know where the hell you live, I s'pose I gotta wander 'round town looking for you."

Reggie didn't answer. He didn't like him. Had a big mouth. Wallace ground the gears and drove slowly away, keeping his eyes on Reggie. Reggie walked the rest of the way around the lake to the spot where he'd left the motorhome. He stood there for several seconds, staring at the space between the trees. The motorhome was gone.

But the damn rain–that rare rain–wasn't.