“Might as well,” I said. I trailed after him as he approached a covered flagstone patio. He crossed to the building’s darkened windows and peered in. He moved to the door and tried the knob. The door was unlocked, but the frame was jammed and required a substantial push before it opened with the kind of scrape that set my teeth on edge.
“You really want to do this?” I asked.
“Hey, it’s part of the tour.”
To me, it felt like breaking and entering, a sport I prefer to get paid for. The sense of trespass was unmistakable, nearly sexual in tone, despite the fact that we’d been given permission to roam. We entered an anteroom that was used to store an assortment of play equipment: badminton rackets, golf clubs, baseball bats, a rack lined with a full set of croquet mallets and balls, Styrofoam kickboards for the pool, and a line of fiberglass surfboards that looked as if they’d been propped against the wall for years. The gardener was currently keeping his leaf blower and a riding mower in the space to one side. While I didn’t see any spiders, the place had a spidery atmosphere. I wanted to brush my clothes hurriedly in case something had dropped down and landed on me unseen.
The pool was half-filled and something about the water looked really nasty. The decking around the pool was paved with a gritty-looking gray slate, not the sort of surface you’d want to feel under your bare feet. At one end of the room was an alcove furnished in rattan, though the cushions were missing from the sofa and matching chairs. The air was gloomy and I could hear the sound of dripping water. Any hint of chlorine had evaporated long ago and several unclassified life-forms had begun to ferment in the depths.
“Looks like it’s time to fire the pool guy,” I remarked.
“The gardener probably does the pool when he remembers,” Guy said. “When we were kids this was great.”
“What’d you and Donovan do to Bennet down here? Drown him? Hang him off the diving board? I can just imagine the fun you must have had.”
Guy smiled, his thoughts somewhere else. “I broke up with a girl once down here. That’s what sticks in my mind. Place was like a country club. Swimming, tennis, softball, croquet. We’d invite dates over for a swim and then we’d end up making out like crazy. Girl in a bathing suit isn’t that hard to seduce. Jack was the all-time champ. He was randy as a rabbit and he’d go after anyone.”
“Why’d you break up with her?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Some rare moment of virtue and self-sacrifice. I liked her too much. I was a bad boy back then and she was too special to screw around with like the other ones. Or maybe odd’s the better word. A little nutsy, too needy. I knew she was fragile and I didn’t want to take the chance. I preferred the wild ones. No responsibility, no regrets, no holds barred.”
“Were your parents aware of what was going on down here?”
“Who knows? I’m not sure. They were proponents of the ‘boys will be boys’ school of moral instruction. Any girl who gave in to us deserved what she got. They never said so explicitly, but that’s the attitude. My mother was more interested in being everybody’s pal. Set limits on a kid and you might have to take a stand at some point. She was into unconditional love, which to her meant the absence of prohibitions of any kind. It was easier to be permissive, you know what I mean? This was all part of the sixties’ feel-good bullshit. Looking back, I can see how much she must have been affected by her illness. She didn’t want to be the stern, disapproving parent. She must have known her days were numbered, even though she survived a lot longer than most. In those days, they did chemo and radiation, but it was all so crudely calibrated they probably killed more people than they cured. They just didn’t have the technology or the sophisticated choice of treatments. It’s different today where you got a real shot at survival. For her, the last couple of years were pure hell.”
“It must have been hard on you.”
“Pure agony,” he said. “I was the child most identified with her. Don’t ask me why, but Donovan and Bennet and Jack were linked to Dad while I was my mother’s favorite. It drove me wild to see her fail. She was faltering and in pain, going downhill on what I knew would be her final journey.”
“Were you with her when she died?”
“Yes. I was. The rest of ’em were gone. I forget now where they were. I sat in her room with her for hours that day. Most of the time she slept. She was so doped up on morphine, she could hardly stay awake. I was exhausted myself and laid my head on the bed. At one point, she reached out and put her hand on my neck. I touched her fingers and she was gone, just like that. So quiet. I didn’t move for an hour.
“I just sat by the bed, leaning forward, with my head turned away from her and my face buried in the sheets. I thought maybe if I didn’t look, she might come back again, like she was hovering someplace close and might return to her body as long as no one noticed she’d left. I didn’t want to break faith.”
“What happened to the girl you broke up with?”
“Patty? I have no idea. I wrote to her once, but never heard back. I’ve thought of her often, but who knows where she is now or what’s happened to her. It might be the best thing I ever did, especially back then. What a bastard I was. I have a hard time connecting. It’s like somebody else was doing it.”
“But you’re a good person now.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think of, myself as good, but sometimes I think I come close to being real.”
We left the pool house behind, moving temporarily onto the sunny stretch of lawn where I’d watched Jack hit golf balls. We were on the terrace below the house, shadows slanting toward us as we crossed the grass.
“How do you feel? You seem relaxed,” I said.
“I’ll be fine once they get here. You know how it is. Your fantasies are always stranger than reality.”
“What do you picture?”
He smiled briefly. “I have no idea.”
“Well, whatever it is, I hope you get what you need.”
“Me, too, but in the long run, what difference does it make? You can’t hide from God and that’s the point,” he said. “For a long time, I was walkin’ down the wrong road, but now I’ve turned myself around and I’m goin’ back the other way. At some point, I’ll meet up with my past and make peace.”
We had, by then, reached the front of the house again. “I better scoot,” I said. “Let me know how it goes.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“No doubt, but I’ll be curious.”
As I got into my car and turned the key in the ignition, I watched him head toward the front door with his backpack. I waved as I passed and then watched him in my rearview mirror as I eased down the drive. I rounded the curve and he was gone from view. It’s painful to think of this in retrospect. Guy Malek was doomed and I delivered him into the hands of the enemy. As I pulled through the gates, I could see a car approach. Bennet was driving. My smile was polite and I waved at him. He stared at me briefly and then glanced away.
ELEVEN
At ten o’clock Monday morning I received a call that should have served as a warning. Looking back, I can see that from that moment on, troubles began to accumulate at an unsettling rate. I’d gotten a late start and I was just closing the front gate behind me when I heard the muffled tone of the telephone ringing in my apartment. I did a quick reverse, trotting down the walkway and around the corner. I unlocked the front door and flung it open in haste, tossing my jacket and bag aside. I snatched up the receiver on the fourth ring, half expecting a wrong number or a market survey now that I’d made the effort. “Hello?”
“Kinsey. This is Donovan.”
“Well, hi. How are you? Whew! Excuse the heavy breathing. I was already out the door and had to run for the phone.”
Apparently, he wasn’t in the mood for cheery chitchat. He got straight to the point. “Did you contact the press?”
It was not a subject I expected the man to broach at this hour or any other. I could feel a fuzzy question mark forming over my head while I pondered what he could possibly be talking about. “Of course not. About what?”