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                                             CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

                                                        The Swim

3:05 p.m.

Flashback: Lucilva, nude, her breasts in a pair of hands, her hips gyrating gently....

From behind the wheel of the pick-up, Lucilva's eyebrows did their curious lift. Then she smiled. "I know that look," she said. "You weren't just tripping out that time."

How could she know that? Reggie wondered, a queasy feeling in his stomach.

"Instant replay," she said. The corner of her lip flinched, as if she'd caught an escaping impulse to smile at him. "Am I right?"

"Instant replay of what?" he said innocently. A dip in the road bounced him dangerously close to the ceiling of the cab. "Hey, slow it down!"

"Don't act like that. I hate when guys act dumber than they are. I’m talking about last night–a replay of last night."

"You're saying I'm dumb?"

She shook her head, laid her hand on his upper leg and squeezed it, while she tightly gripped the agitating steering wheel with the other. "And I loved everything you did to me last night. I'll admit, at first, I wasn't very optimistic, but–"

"Lucilva," Reggie cut in, "I don't want to hear this. I don't get off talking about a night of impulsive sex." Her eyes opened wider at his description of their lusty night together. "Good memories–especially those with sensory moments–stay here." He tapped his temple. "When you let them out here"–he put his finger on her lips–"it all runs out. Nothing's left."

"I like your philosophical side."

She joined her hands at the top of the steering wheel and brought it around sharply to navigate the truck through the eastern hills of Paley. Her expression was piercing when a few minutes later the lake came into view, she turned to him and said:

"There's something...uncomfortable about you and me. Yet I feel like I've known you all my life."

Reggie knew what she meant. He felt the same way. "What do you mean?" he asked, exploring the possibilities.

"I can’t say really."

"Can’t or won’t?"

She glanced over at him, then put her eyes back on the road. "Both, I guess."

"So what won’t you say?"

"If I tell you, I guess I will say."

Reggie adjusted himself in the seat, signaling his readiness for the truth.

She hesitated, then said: "I’m not really attracted to you–physically. I don’t know why either. I tried to figure it out last night."

"So you were faking it."

"Let’s just say I have a wonderful imagination and I used it to both our benefits."

"And what can’t you say?" Reggie asked.

"I can’t say why I kind of like you–in a rather plutonic way–and I can’t figure out why I slept with you, except that–"

"Except that you thought it might keep me from pulling out of the deal and taking I.Q. with me."

"It crossed my mind," she admitted. "But actually I wanted to see for myself. I had to know if I really wasn’t attracted to you."

"And?"

"It’s you I’m attracted to. Your personality, your–this will sound stupid–your spirit."

"My spirit. Hm."

"But I wasn’t lying when I said I enjoyed everything you did to me." She looked at him. He should’ve been turned on. She was an attractive woman, and she was looking at him and saying she enjoyed the sex. But she stirred nothing in him. Maybe it was the way she said it. It was what he did to her and not what she did to him. That was it. He gave and she took. Anything he got was from the giving.

* * *

Joe drove through the town of Lowell, several miles east of Barstow on Highway 40, a cluttered old town centering around a gas station and a restaurant that was really a train station. The train hadn't come through there, though, for a long while. He was tempted to stop for a bite before driving on into Paley. But he worried that Leah might get to Paley and start investigating. Finding Jackie and Robby had to be accomplished with some degree of stealth. Possible headings: Low Profile; Fitting In; Asking the Right Questions of the Right People; Finding the Best Room, the Best Meals in Town. He remembered from his first investigation in Paley that this was not a town where you pissed off people. If you got on the wrong side of the right person, the Paley Police proudly threw rowdies in jail and escorted troublemakers to the city limits. Which came sooner than he expected. After a short twenty-minute drive north on Old Indian Woman Road, a scrappy piece of pavement with no white lines down the center, a road that zig-zagged over the desert between the joints of the Cady Mountains. When he and Dutch had driven this road to Paley four years ago, they'd thought they'd made a wrong turn and almost turned back. Nothing hinted to them that on the other side of these barren mountains was a tiny oasis with a 200-acre man-made lake, surrounded by hills, and a boulevard as quaintly commercial as Solvang, that little Dutch haven in San Luis Obispo County. And a Paley golf course, and a town square, and old western architecture filled with shops ready to sell almost anything imaginable, most of the junk bearing Paley's pastoral logo: the lake, a background of trees and hills. The Paley Plunge. The logo was lusher than reality.

Joe rode the crest of the mountain. The road fell over the top, dropping into the narrow stem of land before reaching the mouth of the narrow canyon. A natural fortress, the way the hills horseshoed Paley, leaving a narrow gap wide enough for a two-lane road and a pair of shoulders through which to enter town.

He passed the cemetery on the left–Tenderness Cemetery the simple stone sign read–and was approaching the city limit sign–Population 1819–when up ahead his attention was snatched by the whirling blue lights atop a Paley Police cruiser parked alongside the road just fifty yards into the city. Joe slowed to gawking speed. A police officer, tall and thin, was grinning, tapping his pen on his citation book. Leah, behind the wheel of her Mustang, wasn't grinning.

Joe's accelerated reaction started in his stomach. Damn! So much for stealth! She hasn’t driven the length of a football field into town and already they know she’s here. The anger bubbled up through his esophagus, scraped past his vocal chords in a cavalcade of curses that didn't end until he'd entered the canyon.

* * *

Trees shaded the cove. Reggie sat in his underwear on a beach towel, leaning against a boulder the size of a Japanese import. He watched Lucilva, standing to her waist in the lake, the sun sparkling in the beads of water rolling off her slim, tanned body, her wide, upturned breasts moving side to side as she slung her head back and forth to shake the water from her tangled hair.

With a striking inhibition, she slowly walked from the water, each step, each swing of her arms a confident movement. Her closely shaved pubic hair exposed the creases made by her legs. Ordinarily this would turn Reggie into a raving horndog. But it didn't. It was like watching a beautiful painting. One dimensional. And what he knew about his relationship to her was overtaking any normal reactions he might have of her.

As she approached him, he tossed her a towel. She dried herself. "That was wonderful, wasn't it?" she said. "Nothing like a swim." She spread her towel beside him, slipped on shorts and a t-shirt bearing the Paley logo, and laid back against the boulder. Her regal gaze across the lake reminded Reggie that she owned all of it.

"You really think I stole your father's body?"

She shook her head, pulling her knees up to her chest. "No. The ransom note has specific demands I don't think would appeal to you."

"You mean the land leases."

She nodded.

The Mission. He tried to get it out of his mind, but he'd made a deal. For his father's sake, he had to keep it.

"You ever wonder," he began aimlessly, "if we really know the truth about our lives?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "You have a...a thing, a philosophical thing about contemplating life. Just live it. It's short, its not always sweet and it just isn't worth it."

"Take me," Reggie went on. "As a kid, I thought my mother was just sick. My father never told me she was crazy, that the hospital she was in was psychiatric. Wasn't until I was seventeen that I figured it out. He wouldn't've ever told me."

"Didn't you visit her?"

He shook his head. "He, uh, said she was...he said she was contagious. Believe that? What’d I know? He said she wouldn't recognize us anyway. I got so used to her not being in my life that I didn't miss her."

A sadness welled up in him. He held it down. It must have shown, because Lucilva put her hand on the back of Reggie's head and stroked his damp hair.

The Mission.

 "Why don't you go see her?" Lucilva said quietly.

"I did. A year ago. She didn't know me. She looked like a...I don't know. A clean bagwoman, best I can describe her."

"What's her name?"

"Ann."

"Ah, that was my mother's middle name. Monica Ann."

"Monica," Reggie repeated, to keep the conversation on track. "Must've been tough to lose her that young."

Nodding, Lucilva took her hand off his hair.

"Was she driving?"

"I don't know."

"How did the accident happen?"

"I don't know, what difference does it make?" She didn't want to talk about it.

"Why won't you talk about it? Might help. Helps when I talk about my mother."

"Not the same."

"What do you mean? When you bottle up things like this it can–"

"What the hell business is it of yours? Why are you so interested in every detail of my mother's death? You just–"

"Hey, wait a minute," he interrupted, holding up a hand, "if you don't want to tell me–"

"It's none of your goddamn business!" She stood up, grabbed the towel.

"Sorry," he said, exasperated. "We're sitting here talking about our lives. I'm telling you mine and–"

"And prying into mine. Look. My mother died in a car accident thirty years ago in Los Angeles. I have no idea how, alright? A few years ago I went to L.A. and tried to find the police report. There was none. So there's no record." She paused. He wanted to ask her what Chris knew about the accident. Did he dare? "It was painful, as you may imagine–probably not, since you seem so inclined to bring it up with me."

"Sorry," he said again, believing he'd almost completed his mission. The Long-Ago flashed forward to the Right-Now, the belief shoved aside by a distant guilt. Inherited guilt. From his father. For killing Lucilva's mother. How could he get this close to her, knowing this? Why did he let this happen? The distance closed between his father's evil and the still living victim of his crime. The reality of his connection to Lucilva pressed him, squeezing senselessness from his mind. He couldn't look at her.

Lucilva said: "Satisfied?"

He nodded. But he wasn't. He wanted to tell her the truth. "I want to stay somewhere in town," he said to keep himself from saying something that would have consequences for his father. His father was dying anyway. It was too late to let this fall on him now.

In the truck, Reggie said: "Why have you hid the fact that your father killed himself?" She looked at him hard. "Just answer me. I'm up to my ass here, I deserve to know what's going on."

"Insurance," she said. "If it's suicide–"

"No pay off."

"Not exactly the words I would use, but yeah, they won't pay."

"That wasn't so hard, was it," he said, and looked out the window of the pick-up. "Take me into town."

The road split. Lucilva seemed indecisive about which direction to take. Either way was the same distance around the lake. Straight across the lake at this point was the main entrance to the recreation area. Reggie made out the spot where November Wallace dropped him off on Thursday.

Turning right, she passed the Lakeshore Cabins, discreetly spaced and shaded by thirty-year-old pines, cypress and pepper trees. At the curve, before passing them, Reggie told her to stop and she veered off the road on the lake side and slammed on the brakes, skidding in the dirt. She turned to him, a passive and strange seriousness in her eyes. Her long brown hair had draped in thick, wet strands around her face when it stopped. She got out a cigarette, used the lighter. "You make the meth and you're done. There are some business matters I have to take care of before I...well, before I change my lifestyle, let's say. Too much is going on. I'd can this whole deal, but, to be honest with you, I need the money."

"Don't we all."

She smiled, her lips never parting.

He got out, turned back and spoke through the window. "We'll start cooking tomorrow. I need some time to myself, away from...I don't know."

"You'll find her," she said.

"How will I get back?"

"Bear flew up to Baker, but he'll come back tonight. Get up to the house tonight and he'll fly you back."

"There's only one seat."

"Up at the ranch we have a Quicksilver II–a trainer. Two seats, side-by-side. He wants to pick it up anyway for Ivan. You'll love it. I promise."

He couldn't think of a good excuse not to have to fly back. But the thought sent a cold shudder through him. A strange sensation in this heat.

She threw the pick-up in gear, revved the engine, spun the wheels. A double blast of dust vaporized behind the truck as she side-slipped up onto the pavement.

Reggie crossed the road to the cabins. In the cabin-turned-office in front, the elderly woman seemed perturbed that he had interrupted her TV program. He paid for the night. She gave him his key, mumbling thanks, and returned to her couch. He stepped back into the desert sun, stared across the lake, stretching like a mirage before him. Jackie's face hovered over his hunger. At that moment, he knew where to go next.

* * *

Driving Paley Parkway, which paralleled Paley Lake Blvd., the main drag, Joe got the address for the shuttle from Directory Assistance. He called the number to get directions. It was some coffee shop at the east end of town across from the entrance to The Plunge. Where Paley Lake doglegged and met Paley Parkway, the big window came into view. Doone's Café. Homecookin' with Hospitality! No sign of the shuttle, but a blue and white triangular sign read, Barstow Shuttle. Tickets Sold Here.

Joe parked on Mojave River Avenue, pulled at his collar to unstick his shirt from his back. It was over a hundred. He felt the sweat making those long peninsulas down his spine. He grinned. Leah hated the heat.

"Beamer to Mustang, come in Mustang," he said into his radio.

"There you are!" she responded hostilely. "Driving all over the damn place!"

"Where are you?"

"Why the hell didn't you stop! You drove right by!"

"Doesn't do any good for them to know we're both in town."

He pictured her making faces at the radio. Then she said, "I'm coming down...let's see...Paley Lake Blvd. Golf course on the left."

"Follow it to the end. It doglegs left. There's a restaurant there called Doone's. That's where I am."

"I'll be there, over."

The lights flashed when he entered. A heavy-set middle-aged waitress wiping the counter with a rag looked up. The place was blatantly folksy. The food smelled good and greasy. He sat on a stool at the counter. He took a menu from the stainless steel holder on the working side of the counter. A grease pencil fell from the corner and swung by a string. Sitting two stools over was a spunky-looking old farmer. His green John Deere cap was set so far back on his head that the bill pointed straight up.

"Here you got to use the pencil," he said. He pointed to his ear. "The Doones are deaf." The word deaf rhymed with beef.

"Interesting," Joe said. "Thanks."

Then Joe noticed a bald cook wearing a white apron standing by the door to the kitchen. He looked tired and hot. Sweat soaked his food-stained shirt. The cook signaled the waitress with his hands. She shook her head and signaled back. Sign language, Joe thought.

The cook returned to the kitchen. Joe checked off what he wanted on the menu. The waitress came over smiling and read his menu. She copied down his order on her pad, nodded and slipped the check onto the carousel.

* * *

Took Reggie fifteen minutes to walk to Doone's. He opened the door and the air conditioning took his breath. He barely noticed the flashing lights as he scanned the room. Place was half empty this time of day. No one seemed to recognize him. Except the cook.

The smell of hamburger and melted cheese made his mouth water. He hadn't eaten all day. He'd eat first, then ask questions. On a blistering day it was best to keep things cool.

He took an open stool at the counter between a goofy-looking farmer in a green cap and some guy with tourist written all over his face.