Double Dose, page 4
“Okay…” She laid her hands, palms up, in the flood of moonlight lighting the table top. “Give me your hands.”
A long pause…long enough that Daley began to wonder if he might blow her off and bolt for the door. But then his fingers appeared above the edge of the table and slowly slid forward. They lifted as they reached hers, then hovered above them, like drones afraid to land.
She’d never seen a mummy’s hands, but she imagined this was how they might look: dry, gray, papery skin hanging off like bits of peeling wallpaper. They weren’t descending, so she lifted hers and closed her fingers around his. Like holding dry, flaking papier-mâché. Daley was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to be caressed by such hands, but holding them was no biggie.
Not bad at all.
(“Well, he told us right from the get-go he was vain.”)
“Okay,” she said softly, trying to ease the tension she sensed coursing through him. “I’ve got you, and it’s not ‘repulsive’ at all. If they were cold and wet and slimy, that would be a whole other thing altogether. But this…like you’re in dire need of hand lotion, that’s all.”
She felt the tension release as his hands relaxed.
(“You continue to confound me.”)
What?
(“You’ll scam people without a shred of remorse and yet here you are, soothing his feelings, putting him at ease…this kind of compassion isn’t you.”)
Maybe it is. You don’t know me.
(“Oh, I know you better than you know you.”)
Well, he’s become a kind of weird sort of friend, and I don’t have many friends.
(“You can say that—”)
Will you get the fuck in there and do your thing!
(“Going, going, gone.”)
“Okay,” she said aloud as she realized she was going to have to put on a bit of a show, “we’re gonna have to stay like this a little while as I concentrate on what I’m doing.”
She closed her eyes and sat very still as she waited for Pard to finish whatever he was doing inside.
And waited…
He usually didn’t take this long.
Finally… (“Okay. A lot of work, but I did the best I could do.”)
She kept her eyes closed. “The best I could do”? You mean you’re not sure this is going to work?
(“I think I got it all but, if not, I can always go back for a second pass. Weird, though.”)
What do you mean?
(“Tell you later. Open your eyes so I can see.”)
She felt a burst of…what? Excitement? Alarm?
You mean he’s going to change instantly?
(“No chance. It’s going to be a slow change as normal skin cells start to replace the abnormal. Tell him to be patient.”)
Daley opened her eyes and released his hands. “There. I did what I can.”
“Ungh?”
He pulled out his pad and pen, scribbled, then pushed the note across. She had to squint to see it in the moonlight.
When do I see results?
“Slowly. Your old cells have to slough off before the new ones can show.”
If this works…
A short, sharp sob issued from the shadow within the hood. The sound was so full of anguish, Daley felt her own throat thicken. She reached out and squeezed his hand.
“I know, I know. Just be patient.”
(“There you go again…”)
Stuff it!
“One thing I need from you is a promise to keep this just between you and me. When you skin starts to improve, you can make up any explanation you please, just don’t mention me.”
Why not?
“Because that’s the way I want things for now. Later on, maybe you can give me credit, but for now…it’s our secret.”
(“Ask him if it affects all the Pendrys.”)
She did and he scribbled.
All the ones
Living here
What?
(“An odd response. An odd condition. If all the members of the clan have a Pendry Patch, it should be genetic, but I discovered that it isn’t.”)
I don’t follow.
(“If it’s handed down from generation to generation, the defect or anomaly should be in the germline cells—the cells that produce sperm and eggs—but it’s not. Which means it’s not an inherited trait, it’s acquired. The defect seems to have been introduced after conception.”)
How does that happen?
(“I have no idea.”)
Daley figured as long as she had Note Man here, she’d ask him.
“The Pendry Patch doesn’t seem to be genetic,” she said.
He scribbled.
It’s not
(“He knows?”)
“What is it then?”
An ugly secret known
only to a very few
“Can you tell me?”
No
Too awful
I can’t imagine…I mean, “Too awful?” How awful can it be?
(“Push him. I’m curious.”)
“Don’t you think you owe me?”
Not yet
(“I think he means he doesn’t know if he’s cured.”)
Fair enough.
Thank you
“Don’t thank me yet.”
You tried
You are a friend
Now her throat was getting all tight again. She nodded, not daring to speak as he gathered his notes and rose, waved, then went out the door, closing it behind him.
Just when I’d thought I’d maxed out all the possible strangeness in life…
(“I do hope it works—for his sake, if nothing else.”)
If his skin clears, it will change his life. Will he be able to adjust to being with people?
(“Maybe we’ll finally find out who he is. And maybe he’ll tell us the mystery of the Pendry Patch.”)
Whatever. I’m going to bed. The last twenty-four hours have been the weirdest of my life—of anyone’s life, I’ll bet.
(“Yes, but who knows what tomorrow will bring.”)
MONDAY—March 9
9
Rhys stopped in the doorway to his father’s office and watched him. Usually Dad was hyper-busy on a Monday morning, dealing with the markets as they returned to life after a weekend. Instead he sat quietly, staring at nothing through the big front windows, his thoughts apparently a million miles away.
“Hey, Dad,” he said and watched his father start and snap back to the here and now, then spin in his chair to face him.
His smile looked forced. “Rhys…what is it?”
He’d run last night’s celestial scans through the Scroll program as he did every weekday so his father could apply the results to guide the investments of the Pendry Fund. And as had happened for the last two weeks or so, a message popped up at the bottom of the printout.
“We’re getting the same message as before: The Duad must cease.”
He nodded absently. “No surprise there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hmmm? Oh, I mean nothing has changed—the Duad is still here, we’ve learned nothing of any substance about her, you’re still infatuated with her—so why should the message change?”
“Well, you’re in an odd mood today. What put you there?”
His father shrugged. “Nothing…everything.”
Rhys had no patience for this crap this morning. He had a headache—not a bad one, just enough to be annoying—from last night’s tequila, and he needed more coffee.
“Whatever. The other news is that Kendrick didn’t show up for work this morning and he’s not answering his phone.”
“No surprise there either.”
Again with the “no surprise”?
“Well, yeah, it is a surprise since he’s never missed a day’s work since you hired him.”
Rhys didn’t think much of Kendrick as a person, but he’d proved to be a dependable worker and a good foreman. He seemed to like bossing people around and kept the solar array running smoothly.
“It’s no surprise when you give an ex-con responsibility and he lets you down.”
Seriously? This made no sense. He’d hired the guy because he was an ex-con. And then bragged about what a good decision he’d made.
The only thing Rhys was accomplishing here was making his headache worse.
“I sent someone around to his place but he didn’t answer his door. Maybe I should go.”
Suddenly his father came to life—out of his chair and shaking a finger at Rhys. “No-no. You stay away from that man. He’ll either show up eventually or he won’t. If he doesn’t, we’ll promote someone else to foreman. As for now, give me some space. I’ve got decisions to make.”
Shaking his head, Rhys headed back to his own office. He didn’t know if he was more baffled or annoyed. And he didn’t want another foreman. He’d seen the way Kendrick had driven the men when they were laying the cable from the Tadhak transformer to the tower—on a Sunday, no less—and liked the way he’d operated.
Forget what Dad said. Kendrick might not answer the door for one of his underlings, but if he was there, he’d open it for Rhys.
10
Daley walked into Arturo’s Cozy Coyote Café for her morning coffee and traded waves and hellos with all the regulars. She hadn’t wanted to stay in Nespodee Springs when Juana had first brought her here, but Pard—for reasons that still weren’t clear to her, and maybe not even to him—had pushed for it. Now she was glad she’d listened. Jason Tadhak had proven himself a generous, conscientious landlord, and the local folks had accepted her as one of their own. Arturo especially.
As she arrived at the counter, the big guy pushed a twenty-ounce coffee container toward her. Like every other day, he wore a backward Padres cap and an apron that was long overdue for a swim in some hot soapy water.
“The usual,” he said, and winked. “I saw you crossing the street. Any food?”
The usual…how great was that?
“Maybe later. I don’t know what I’m doing today.”
“That’s right. You’re closed Mondays. I were you, I’d get outa town. Nothing doing here.”
“Not a whole lot doing anywhere in the valley.”
“Well, you got that right.”
“Hey, Arturo,” someone called from down the counter. “I know I ain’t as pretty as her, but you think you could start that Taylor Ham frying before I starve to death?”
“‘Taylor Ham’?” Daley said.
“Pete’s from New Jersey. That’s what they call pork roll where he comes from.”
“Pork roll? People really eat something called ‘pork roll’?”
“Delicious. You should try my breakfast special sandwich sometime.” He winked and headed for the grill. “Gotta go.”
His departure gave Daley a view of the small TV playing low behind the takeout counter. A newsreader was talking about the horrors.
“…and the plague continues to ravage Southern California. With no known cause and no cure, hospitals are reporting bed shortages due to the steady influx of screaming unconscious patients who need skilled nursing care and constant sedation.”
(“Which gives me an idea of what we can do on our day off,”) Pard said.
Good. Because I’m at a loss.
(“Well, unless you object, I’d like to check on that horrors victim. Remember him?”)
The guy from Saturday? Hard to forget.
The guy had been spending the weekend at the spa with his wife. They’d been sightseeing in town when he collapsed in the middle of what passed for Main Street here and started screaming.
“Happy Monday,” Daley called to the breakfast gang as she waved and headed back across the street to Healerina where they found a glazier’s truck parked in front of it and Jason Tadhak talking to the driver.
“Oh, Daley,” Jason said. “I was looking for you. I know you close Mondays so I thought now would be a good time to replace your front window.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’ll leave the place unlocked.”
This was perfect. The store had been bright and airy before last week’s quake broke the big front window. The blue tarp had turned it dark and creepy.
Jason Tadhak—the best landlord anyone could ever want.
(“Okay,”) Pard said as she unlocked the store door. (“Let’s get back to the subject of our horrors guy. He’s an itch I need to scratch.”)
You don’t have any skin.
(“You know the kind of itch I mean.”)
I do. I remember you saying the horrific images in his head were from “outside,” whatever that means.
(“It means they’re unrelated to human experience. Nightmares and such come from experience or a mash-up of images you’ve been exposed to. From my brief look inside—before that fascist EMT forced you to break contact—I gathered that these horrors are not being drawn from the victim’s unconscious but being fed to him from elsewhere.”)
His wife called him Timothy.
(“Okay, then. Do you mind if we go look for Timothy? I’d like another peek inside.”)
Got nothing better to do. Why not?
With a wave to Jason, she walked around back and up the stairs to her apartment.
(“And who knows? I might be able to help him.”)
“Oh, wait,” she said aloud as she closed the door behind her. “That might bring too much attention. I’m not ready for that.”
(“You can play dumb.”)
“As the owner of a shop called Healerina? Think about that. I’ve never been in the medical center, but I bet it’s got cameras all over the place.”
(“Good point. Well, then, we’ll have to disguise your more prominent features.”)
“Like my hair.”
(“Definitely your hair. And not with your Dodgers cap—that’s all but a signature look for you. We need to hide that golden left hand as well.”)
“Gloves?”
(“It’s going to be in the seventies.”)
“One glove? It worked for Michael Jackson.”
(“We’re trying to deflect attention, not attract it.”)
“Makeup, then. I’ll buy a floppy sun hat and some heavy-duty makeup for my hand.”
(“And big sunglasses.”)
“Those I already have.”
(“Well, then, let’s be on our way.”)
11
Rhys banged on the door of Kendrick’s double-wide mobile home and got no answer.
“Mister Kendrick!” he called. “It’s Rhys Pendry. Just checking to see it you’re all right.”
Still no response, so he banged again. What if he’d overdosed on something and died? He spotted an elderly gent stepping out of the trailer next door.
“Excuse me? Do you know if Mister Kendrick’s home?”
He shook his bald head. “Ain’t seen him since Saturday.”
“He didn’t show up for work today and I’m wondering if he’s all right.”
“Truck’s gone so that’s a pretty good sign he’s gone too.”
Rhys absently tugged on the door handle and it swung open.
“Doesn’t he lock his door?”
“We ain’t buddies, mister. We’ve lived next door for years, but if you know him at all, you know he ain’t exactly the warm friendly type.”
“Agreed,” Rhys said. Anything but.
“But I gotta say, pretty much everyone locks their doors here in Mobile Jungleland.”
“Is that what it’s called?”
“That’s what I call it.”
Rhys gestured toward the open door. “I’m just going to take a quick look to make sure he’s not in there.”
“Knock yourself out.”
Up the three steps and inside—first thing Rhys noticed was a urine smell, which did not bode well. But a quick search of the double-wide revealed an unmade bed, a sink full of unwashed dishes, a pressing bench with massive weights in the second bedroom, but no Kendrick. He noticed Kendrick’s last paycheck on the kitchenette counter, and took that to mean he intended to come back. But it didn’t rule out the possibility that he’d driven off and fallen victim to foul play. He could be lying in a ditch somewhere.
He stepped back outside and latched the door behind him.
“Nobody home.”
“Why’s he suddenly so popular?” the codger said. “You’re the second fella come looking for him in two days.”
“Second?”
“Yeah. Fella in a Land Rover last night. Couldn’t see him too well in the dark, but there was still enough light left in the sky to see he coulda been an older version of you.”
An “older version” of Rhys in a Land Rover…that could only be his father. Why was he looking for Kendrick last night? And why didn’t he mention it earlier when Rhys told him Kendrick was a no show?
And where the hell was Jeffery “Karma” Kendrick?
12
Karma stared up at Salvation Mountain.
He’d driven the desert roads and the highways all day Sunday and into Monday, south to Jacumba Springs, east to the outskirts of Yuma, north to Palm Desert, south again to circle the Salton Sea until he wound up here at this giant pastry mountain. A big dune bulked up with mounds of sand and bales of hay to a height of five stories or so, all smoothed over with a truckload of plaster and slathered with a small ocean of brightly colored paint, then decorated with spiritual sayings and quotes from the Bible and “GOD IS LOVE” in huge pink letters, all topped with a skinny white cross. If Godzilla was some crazy-ass preacher, this was what its birthday cake would look like.
Karma didn’t know nothing about the Bible or this “God is Love” bullshit. He’d been raised without religion. His father had been a stupid, violent drunk and his mother had been from the local Cahuillas. Both were gone now, and he’d never missed them for a minute. The only real family he’d ever had were the Gargoyles—his brothers, man, his real brothers. And all they’d ever worshipped was whatever they could smoke, drink, or snort to get high. He’d been right there with them. And now even they were gone.
So “God is Love” and the Bible quotes meant nothing to Karma, never had and he knew they never would. The Bible thumpers all talked on and on about Jesus rising from the dead, but those were just words in a book. He’d met a real, live goddess and he’d killed her himself, and she didn’t wait no three days to rise from the dead, she’d knocked on his door, like, just minutes later and she showed him the hell she’d send him to if he ever crossed her path again. So he had to stay away from her. He wasn’t worthy of her so he had to become someone else.
A long pause…long enough that Daley began to wonder if he might blow her off and bolt for the door. But then his fingers appeared above the edge of the table and slowly slid forward. They lifted as they reached hers, then hovered above them, like drones afraid to land.
She’d never seen a mummy’s hands, but she imagined this was how they might look: dry, gray, papery skin hanging off like bits of peeling wallpaper. They weren’t descending, so she lifted hers and closed her fingers around his. Like holding dry, flaking papier-mâché. Daley was pretty sure she wouldn’t want to be caressed by such hands, but holding them was no biggie.
Not bad at all.
(“Well, he told us right from the get-go he was vain.”)
“Okay,” she said softly, trying to ease the tension she sensed coursing through him. “I’ve got you, and it’s not ‘repulsive’ at all. If they were cold and wet and slimy, that would be a whole other thing altogether. But this…like you’re in dire need of hand lotion, that’s all.”
She felt the tension release as his hands relaxed.
(“You continue to confound me.”)
What?
(“You’ll scam people without a shred of remorse and yet here you are, soothing his feelings, putting him at ease…this kind of compassion isn’t you.”)
Maybe it is. You don’t know me.
(“Oh, I know you better than you know you.”)
Well, he’s become a kind of weird sort of friend, and I don’t have many friends.
(“You can say that—”)
Will you get the fuck in there and do your thing!
(“Going, going, gone.”)
“Okay,” she said aloud as she realized she was going to have to put on a bit of a show, “we’re gonna have to stay like this a little while as I concentrate on what I’m doing.”
She closed her eyes and sat very still as she waited for Pard to finish whatever he was doing inside.
And waited…
He usually didn’t take this long.
Finally… (“Okay. A lot of work, but I did the best I could do.”)
She kept her eyes closed. “The best I could do”? You mean you’re not sure this is going to work?
(“I think I got it all but, if not, I can always go back for a second pass. Weird, though.”)
What do you mean?
(“Tell you later. Open your eyes so I can see.”)
She felt a burst of…what? Excitement? Alarm?
You mean he’s going to change instantly?
(“No chance. It’s going to be a slow change as normal skin cells start to replace the abnormal. Tell him to be patient.”)
Daley opened her eyes and released his hands. “There. I did what I can.”
“Ungh?”
He pulled out his pad and pen, scribbled, then pushed the note across. She had to squint to see it in the moonlight.
When do I see results?
“Slowly. Your old cells have to slough off before the new ones can show.”
If this works…
A short, sharp sob issued from the shadow within the hood. The sound was so full of anguish, Daley felt her own throat thicken. She reached out and squeezed his hand.
“I know, I know. Just be patient.”
(“There you go again…”)
Stuff it!
“One thing I need from you is a promise to keep this just between you and me. When you skin starts to improve, you can make up any explanation you please, just don’t mention me.”
Why not?
“Because that’s the way I want things for now. Later on, maybe you can give me credit, but for now…it’s our secret.”
(“Ask him if it affects all the Pendrys.”)
She did and he scribbled.
All the ones
Living here
What?
(“An odd response. An odd condition. If all the members of the clan have a Pendry Patch, it should be genetic, but I discovered that it isn’t.”)
I don’t follow.
(“If it’s handed down from generation to generation, the defect or anomaly should be in the germline cells—the cells that produce sperm and eggs—but it’s not. Which means it’s not an inherited trait, it’s acquired. The defect seems to have been introduced after conception.”)
How does that happen?
(“I have no idea.”)
Daley figured as long as she had Note Man here, she’d ask him.
“The Pendry Patch doesn’t seem to be genetic,” she said.
He scribbled.
It’s not
(“He knows?”)
“What is it then?”
An ugly secret known
only to a very few
“Can you tell me?”
No
Too awful
I can’t imagine…I mean, “Too awful?” How awful can it be?
(“Push him. I’m curious.”)
“Don’t you think you owe me?”
Not yet
(“I think he means he doesn’t know if he’s cured.”)
Fair enough.
Thank you
“Don’t thank me yet.”
You tried
You are a friend
Now her throat was getting all tight again. She nodded, not daring to speak as he gathered his notes and rose, waved, then went out the door, closing it behind him.
Just when I’d thought I’d maxed out all the possible strangeness in life…
(“I do hope it works—for his sake, if nothing else.”)
If his skin clears, it will change his life. Will he be able to adjust to being with people?
(“Maybe we’ll finally find out who he is. And maybe he’ll tell us the mystery of the Pendry Patch.”)
Whatever. I’m going to bed. The last twenty-four hours have been the weirdest of my life—of anyone’s life, I’ll bet.
(“Yes, but who knows what tomorrow will bring.”)
MONDAY—March 9
9
Rhys stopped in the doorway to his father’s office and watched him. Usually Dad was hyper-busy on a Monday morning, dealing with the markets as they returned to life after a weekend. Instead he sat quietly, staring at nothing through the big front windows, his thoughts apparently a million miles away.
“Hey, Dad,” he said and watched his father start and snap back to the here and now, then spin in his chair to face him.
His smile looked forced. “Rhys…what is it?”
He’d run last night’s celestial scans through the Scroll program as he did every weekday so his father could apply the results to guide the investments of the Pendry Fund. And as had happened for the last two weeks or so, a message popped up at the bottom of the printout.
“We’re getting the same message as before: The Duad must cease.”
He nodded absently. “No surprise there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hmmm? Oh, I mean nothing has changed—the Duad is still here, we’ve learned nothing of any substance about her, you’re still infatuated with her—so why should the message change?”
“Well, you’re in an odd mood today. What put you there?”
His father shrugged. “Nothing…everything.”
Rhys had no patience for this crap this morning. He had a headache—not a bad one, just enough to be annoying—from last night’s tequila, and he needed more coffee.
“Whatever. The other news is that Kendrick didn’t show up for work this morning and he’s not answering his phone.”
“No surprise there either.”
Again with the “no surprise”?
“Well, yeah, it is a surprise since he’s never missed a day’s work since you hired him.”
Rhys didn’t think much of Kendrick as a person, but he’d proved to be a dependable worker and a good foreman. He seemed to like bossing people around and kept the solar array running smoothly.
“It’s no surprise when you give an ex-con responsibility and he lets you down.”
Seriously? This made no sense. He’d hired the guy because he was an ex-con. And then bragged about what a good decision he’d made.
The only thing Rhys was accomplishing here was making his headache worse.
“I sent someone around to his place but he didn’t answer his door. Maybe I should go.”
Suddenly his father came to life—out of his chair and shaking a finger at Rhys. “No-no. You stay away from that man. He’ll either show up eventually or he won’t. If he doesn’t, we’ll promote someone else to foreman. As for now, give me some space. I’ve got decisions to make.”
Shaking his head, Rhys headed back to his own office. He didn’t know if he was more baffled or annoyed. And he didn’t want another foreman. He’d seen the way Kendrick had driven the men when they were laying the cable from the Tadhak transformer to the tower—on a Sunday, no less—and liked the way he’d operated.
Forget what Dad said. Kendrick might not answer the door for one of his underlings, but if he was there, he’d open it for Rhys.
10
Daley walked into Arturo’s Cozy Coyote Café for her morning coffee and traded waves and hellos with all the regulars. She hadn’t wanted to stay in Nespodee Springs when Juana had first brought her here, but Pard—for reasons that still weren’t clear to her, and maybe not even to him—had pushed for it. Now she was glad she’d listened. Jason Tadhak had proven himself a generous, conscientious landlord, and the local folks had accepted her as one of their own. Arturo especially.
As she arrived at the counter, the big guy pushed a twenty-ounce coffee container toward her. Like every other day, he wore a backward Padres cap and an apron that was long overdue for a swim in some hot soapy water.
“The usual,” he said, and winked. “I saw you crossing the street. Any food?”
The usual…how great was that?
“Maybe later. I don’t know what I’m doing today.”
“That’s right. You’re closed Mondays. I were you, I’d get outa town. Nothing doing here.”
“Not a whole lot doing anywhere in the valley.”
“Well, you got that right.”
“Hey, Arturo,” someone called from down the counter. “I know I ain’t as pretty as her, but you think you could start that Taylor Ham frying before I starve to death?”
“‘Taylor Ham’?” Daley said.
“Pete’s from New Jersey. That’s what they call pork roll where he comes from.”
“Pork roll? People really eat something called ‘pork roll’?”
“Delicious. You should try my breakfast special sandwich sometime.” He winked and headed for the grill. “Gotta go.”
His departure gave Daley a view of the small TV playing low behind the takeout counter. A newsreader was talking about the horrors.
“…and the plague continues to ravage Southern California. With no known cause and no cure, hospitals are reporting bed shortages due to the steady influx of screaming unconscious patients who need skilled nursing care and constant sedation.”
(“Which gives me an idea of what we can do on our day off,”) Pard said.
Good. Because I’m at a loss.
(“Well, unless you object, I’d like to check on that horrors victim. Remember him?”)
The guy from Saturday? Hard to forget.
The guy had been spending the weekend at the spa with his wife. They’d been sightseeing in town when he collapsed in the middle of what passed for Main Street here and started screaming.
“Happy Monday,” Daley called to the breakfast gang as she waved and headed back across the street to Healerina where they found a glazier’s truck parked in front of it and Jason Tadhak talking to the driver.
“Oh, Daley,” Jason said. “I was looking for you. I know you close Mondays so I thought now would be a good time to replace your front window.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’ll leave the place unlocked.”
This was perfect. The store had been bright and airy before last week’s quake broke the big front window. The blue tarp had turned it dark and creepy.
Jason Tadhak—the best landlord anyone could ever want.
(“Okay,”) Pard said as she unlocked the store door. (“Let’s get back to the subject of our horrors guy. He’s an itch I need to scratch.”)
You don’t have any skin.
(“You know the kind of itch I mean.”)
I do. I remember you saying the horrific images in his head were from “outside,” whatever that means.
(“It means they’re unrelated to human experience. Nightmares and such come from experience or a mash-up of images you’ve been exposed to. From my brief look inside—before that fascist EMT forced you to break contact—I gathered that these horrors are not being drawn from the victim’s unconscious but being fed to him from elsewhere.”)
His wife called him Timothy.
(“Okay, then. Do you mind if we go look for Timothy? I’d like another peek inside.”)
Got nothing better to do. Why not?
With a wave to Jason, she walked around back and up the stairs to her apartment.
(“And who knows? I might be able to help him.”)
“Oh, wait,” she said aloud as she closed the door behind her. “That might bring too much attention. I’m not ready for that.”
(“You can play dumb.”)
“As the owner of a shop called Healerina? Think about that. I’ve never been in the medical center, but I bet it’s got cameras all over the place.”
(“Good point. Well, then, we’ll have to disguise your more prominent features.”)
“Like my hair.”
(“Definitely your hair. And not with your Dodgers cap—that’s all but a signature look for you. We need to hide that golden left hand as well.”)
“Gloves?”
(“It’s going to be in the seventies.”)
“One glove? It worked for Michael Jackson.”
(“We’re trying to deflect attention, not attract it.”)
“Makeup, then. I’ll buy a floppy sun hat and some heavy-duty makeup for my hand.”
(“And big sunglasses.”)
“Those I already have.”
(“Well, then, let’s be on our way.”)
11
Rhys banged on the door of Kendrick’s double-wide mobile home and got no answer.
“Mister Kendrick!” he called. “It’s Rhys Pendry. Just checking to see it you’re all right.”
Still no response, so he banged again. What if he’d overdosed on something and died? He spotted an elderly gent stepping out of the trailer next door.
“Excuse me? Do you know if Mister Kendrick’s home?”
He shook his bald head. “Ain’t seen him since Saturday.”
“He didn’t show up for work today and I’m wondering if he’s all right.”
“Truck’s gone so that’s a pretty good sign he’s gone too.”
Rhys absently tugged on the door handle and it swung open.
“Doesn’t he lock his door?”
“We ain’t buddies, mister. We’ve lived next door for years, but if you know him at all, you know he ain’t exactly the warm friendly type.”
“Agreed,” Rhys said. Anything but.
“But I gotta say, pretty much everyone locks their doors here in Mobile Jungleland.”
“Is that what it’s called?”
“That’s what I call it.”
Rhys gestured toward the open door. “I’m just going to take a quick look to make sure he’s not in there.”
“Knock yourself out.”
Up the three steps and inside—first thing Rhys noticed was a urine smell, which did not bode well. But a quick search of the double-wide revealed an unmade bed, a sink full of unwashed dishes, a pressing bench with massive weights in the second bedroom, but no Kendrick. He noticed Kendrick’s last paycheck on the kitchenette counter, and took that to mean he intended to come back. But it didn’t rule out the possibility that he’d driven off and fallen victim to foul play. He could be lying in a ditch somewhere.
He stepped back outside and latched the door behind him.
“Nobody home.”
“Why’s he suddenly so popular?” the codger said. “You’re the second fella come looking for him in two days.”
“Second?”
“Yeah. Fella in a Land Rover last night. Couldn’t see him too well in the dark, but there was still enough light left in the sky to see he coulda been an older version of you.”
An “older version” of Rhys in a Land Rover…that could only be his father. Why was he looking for Kendrick last night? And why didn’t he mention it earlier when Rhys told him Kendrick was a no show?
And where the hell was Jeffery “Karma” Kendrick?
12
Karma stared up at Salvation Mountain.
He’d driven the desert roads and the highways all day Sunday and into Monday, south to Jacumba Springs, east to the outskirts of Yuma, north to Palm Desert, south again to circle the Salton Sea until he wound up here at this giant pastry mountain. A big dune bulked up with mounds of sand and bales of hay to a height of five stories or so, all smoothed over with a truckload of plaster and slathered with a small ocean of brightly colored paint, then decorated with spiritual sayings and quotes from the Bible and “GOD IS LOVE” in huge pink letters, all topped with a skinny white cross. If Godzilla was some crazy-ass preacher, this was what its birthday cake would look like.
Karma didn’t know nothing about the Bible or this “God is Love” bullshit. He’d been raised without religion. His father had been a stupid, violent drunk and his mother had been from the local Cahuillas. Both were gone now, and he’d never missed them for a minute. The only real family he’d ever had were the Gargoyles—his brothers, man, his real brothers. And all they’d ever worshipped was whatever they could smoke, drink, or snort to get high. He’d been right there with them. And now even they were gone.
So “God is Love” and the Bible quotes meant nothing to Karma, never had and he knew they never would. The Bible thumpers all talked on and on about Jesus rising from the dead, but those were just words in a book. He’d met a real, live goddess and he’d killed her himself, and she didn’t wait no three days to rise from the dead, she’d knocked on his door, like, just minutes later and she showed him the hell she’d send him to if he ever crossed her path again. So he had to stay away from her. He wasn’t worthy of her so he had to become someone else.
