"What's the difference: grass, hash, quaaludes. It was the 'ludes that got to her. No tolerance. Out like a light."
He looked down at Nova, then his gaze shifted to Lucy.
"What are you staring at? Make yourself useful. Dig with your hands-go on."
Lucy got down on all fours and began scooping up clay.
I said, "Two parties, then. Friday night and Saturday."
He blinked with surprise. Covered it with a laugh.
"The police know, too."
"Is that so? That sounds right out of a telly script. Go on, dig."
I faked some more. "So she came on to you?"
"All saucy talk and meaningful glances, quite a piece. A virgin, though you'd never have known it."
"She didn't stay one Saturday night, did she?" Chop. Grunt.
"Oh," he said. "Are we being politically correct? Are we saying a saucy little piece who crawls up on your lap and puts her tongue in your ear doesn't want it? We treated her like a lady- ill-deserved. She was totally stoned, unbuttoning her blouse, singing Jefferson Airplane songs. Then she vomited. All over me."
His mouth twitched. "But I cleaned her up anyway. Dressed her and combed her hair. Curt even put makeup on her- are you slacking, Ms. Daughter? Get those hands working."
Lucy scooped and tossed dirt. Her eyes were dry and her thoughts were impossible to read. Nova's cheek was squashed against the earth, her swollen eye totally shut, her lip split.
I breathed conspicuously and gave him another few shovel strokes. "So what went wrong?"
"What do you think? She didn't wake up- but how did you find out?"
I didn't answer. He put the gun to Nova's head.
"I remembered it," said Lucy.
"You?" Graydon-Jones was amused. "What were you back then, a fetus?"
Lucy started to say something. I shook my head at her.
"The old idiot told you," said Graydon-Jones. "Fucking bloody fool. Well, as usual he's screwed up." Giggles. "You've missed the spot completely." Letting his gaze coast over us, toward the larger of the willows.
Lucy made a soft, catlike sound.
I said, "Who was at the party besides you and App and Lowell?"
"Not Lowell," he said. "Thankfully. He was always such a bore. Friday night, he had her on his lap, sad tales of the writer's lonely life. But Saturday he was too busy for that- Caligula in his toga."
"So why'd he get involved in burying her?"
"Because he's such a kind man." Laughter. "He dropped in to pick up some papers and found me trying to revive her, and panic, panic, panic. All that blood-and-gore verse; turns out he had soft-boiled guts."
"Did he drop in alone or was he with Mellors and Trafficant? How big of a private party was-"
"Shut up. I want you finished well before dark."
I pantomimed more effort. "So the party was right over there?" Glancing across the pond.
He said nothing.
"Far from the madding crowd," I said.
"Far from the meddling crud."
Graydon-Jones pushed his foot on Nova. Her eyes had stopped moving and her jaw was being pushed down in an unnatural position, the scars compressing…
I said, "App's got a good thing going. Sits on the beach and you do the dirty work."
"Wrong," he said. "You do the dirty work."
Aiming the gun at the center of my nose.
I kept on faking, moving dirt from place to place. Lucy had caught on and was doing the same. Her hair was caked into dreadlocks. The hole was at least five feet deep. I wondered how much longer we'd be able to avoid the next foot.
Graydon-Jones must have been thinking the same thing.
He grabbed Nova by the back of her collar and dragged her closer to the pit. The gun moved back and forth from her head to Lucy and me. Nickel-plated automatic. Plenty of bullets for everyone.
Nova tried to shield her face. Her shut eye was purplish, ballooning, and the gun barrel had made red circles on her temple.
Graydon-Jones stopped six feet from the rim, letting her drop, again, and putting his foot on the back of her neck. It wouldn't take much pressure to snap her cervical vertebrae.
He looked down.
"Bloody hell. Playing games, are we?"
Training the gun on Lucy, he started to squeeze the trigger.
I dove to push her away but she was up, screaming, throwing a clump of hard dirt at him. Direct hit on his chest. The gun fired somewhere up in the air. Nova seized the moment to arch her back and grab his foot. That diverted his gaze downward as he kicked at her and tried to tighten his grip on the gun.
I drew the shovel back like a javelin and fired it at his legs, blade first, as hard as my sandbag arms could muster.
The tip slammed into his left shin and he yelled in pain and surprise.
Nova managed to break free. Graydon-Jones aimed at her. She ran toward Inspiration as I vaulted out of the hole.
I threw myself on him. As we went down together, I felt the gun pinned between our chests, digging into my sternum. The arm holding it twisted in an unnatural way. I slammed the other down as he tried to bite my nose. He was out of shape but adrenaline had powered him, too, and he pitched and rolled, managing to slide the gun arm out.
Then something came from the left in a brown-white blur, striking him hard in the cheek, quick as a snakebite.
His head whiplashed. Another blow, and his eyes rolled back. He went loose.
I twisted the gun from his fingers.
Lucy's muddy sneaker kicked him again. Unconscious, he started to drool, then vomit. I jumped free of the trickle of filth.
Standing over him, I trained the automatic on his head.
His Sausalito sweatshirt a putrid mess.
Breathing but not moving, the left side of his head muddy, starting to balloon.
I was panting. So was Lucy.
She reached down toward Graydon-Jones, then stopped herself.
I put my arm around her. She looked over at the larger willow.
The shovel lay on the ground, not far from Graydon-Jones.
"You okay?" I said.
She held her chest and nodded.
Movement across the pond. Nova had made her way into the tall grass and was running toward the forest, the tints in her hair bright as fruit among the green stalks.
"Call the police!" I shouted.
She gave no indication she heard.
45
I needed binding. Thought of something.
I gave the gun to Lucy. The way she took it told me she'd never held one before.
"He probably won't stir, but don't get any closer. Keep it aimed at his head and watch him. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Taking the shovel, I followed Nova's flight into the forest, running hard until I came to the knotted, viney plant that had blocked our way. Bent back now, and trodden- Graydon-Jones following the path we'd laid out for him.
Chopping off several long tendrils, I ran back and trussed him in a loose hogtie. He was breathing fine and his neck pulse was strong and regular. He'd have a badly bruised shin, a monster headache, maybe a concussion, but he'd survive.
We left him there and returned to the lodge.
Lowell's Jeep was still there but the Mercedes was gone. A brown van with a rental sticker sat between Lucy's car and the Seville. The doors were unlocked and I looked inside. Rental form made out to Mr. Hacker. Cash transaction. In back were shovels and a pickax, a hacksaw, a spool of rope, and several boxes of heavy-duty garbage bags. The keys were under the driver's seat and I pocketed them. Fresh tire tracks and oil spots traced the Mercedes' exit.
We went inside the house.
Lowell was in bed, eyes closed.
Breathing very shallowly and slowly.
Ghostly white.
Two halves of an ampule glinted from the floor, just under the bed. I found the hypodermic needle a few feet away, half concealed by the yellowed corners of an old New York Times Book Review. A fresh red dot in the crook of his left arm.