Double

33: McCone

I took Interstate 8 east as if I were going to Woodall’s house, turned north on Route 67 at El Cajon, and finally east again on Route 78. At the little town of Julian — a Western-style tourist town full of motorcycles, which was far too cute for my taste — I stopped and bought some chilled Calistoga Water as protection against the mounting heat. There were seven miles of sharp curves down Banner Grade from Julian, and then the landscape abruptly changed to desert.

The road lay before me, covered by shimmering pools of illusionary water that kept receding into the distance. The dry heat grew even more intense, making my skin feel papery, the membranes of my nose and mouth dry. Periodically I drank from the sweat-beaded bottle of water.

The land around me was sandy and flat, dotted with spiny jumping cholla and desert sagebrush. Smoke trees and lifeless-looking ironwood trees grew down in the washes. I thought of my childhood excursions to the desert, when I’d learned the names of these plants. The trips were supposed to delight, but in reality had only given me my first inkling of man’s insignificance and inherent loneliness.

And then I ceased to think of anything much at all; the desert has that numbing effect on those who drive across it.

The only other vehicles on the road seemed to be campers, pickups, and motorcycles. An occasional truck hauled a dune buggy. The sky was starkly blue, and hawks wheeled across it. I kept going, over San Felipe Creek, where tamarisk trees and desert willows grew in abundance, toward the turnoff for Borrego Springs.

Named for the bighorn sheep that live high in the surrounding mountains, Borrego Springs is an oasis in the Colorado Desert. The gateway to the Anza-Borrego Desert Region, it sprawls in a valley, a palm-shaded little town with two country clubs and a small shopping area. The thought of getting out of the car and sitting in the shade — maybe getting something to eat — appealed to me, and I was about to turn north on Yaqui Pass Road when I thought to stop and check the map that the man in the recorder’s office had drawn for me.

The map indicated I should continue on Highway 78 to the village of Ocotillo Wells. So much for a brief interlude under a palm tree. I put the car in gear and went on, past rocky washes and land where the vegetation became more and more sparse.

As I approached Ocotillo Wells, groups of campers and tents began to appear on the barren land on either side of the road. The village itself consisted of a café, store, and Mobil station. Its one dubious claim to fame is being the “dune buggy capital of the world,” because of its proximity to the Ocotillo Wells State Vehicular Recreation Area. I smiled wryly as I drove in, thinking, What if Elaine came out here to roar around in a dune buggy? What if Les Club is nothing more than a bunch of motorized maniacs?

Somehow I knew that wasn’t it.

From Ocotillo Wells, the map showed I should take Split Mountain Road south toward the former site of Little Borrego, but I decided to ask directions anyway. Maybe someone here would know of Les Club and simplify matters for me. I pulled into the gas station, where a few scruffy-looking young men stood drinking beer around a dune buggy. I parked to one side, and went into the office. A sun-browned teenage boy came out of the garage area, wiping greasy hands on a rag.

“Help you, ma’am?”

“Yes. I’m looking for a place near here called Les Club.”

He looked blank. “Never heard of it.”

“I have a map.”

He took it gingerly, trying not to smear it with grease. “Oh, yeah. I see. What you do is take Split Mountain Road, the one right next to the station here, almost to where it ends at the big gypsum mine. There’s a rutted road that branches off to the south. You follow it about seven miles up to the foothills. Part of it’s pretty badly rutted, so be careful in that little car. The old Matthews place is at the end of it.”

“What kind of place is it?”

“You never been there before?”

“No.”

He grinned. “Then you’ll see. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.” He turned and went back into the garage.

I drove down Split Mountain Road, past the Elephant Tree Ranger Station. At first I saw dune buggies running along the roadside, but soon they disappeared, and by the time I got to the turnoff, I felt as if I were the only person for miles around. Within sight of the entrance to the U.S. Gypsum Mine, I turned right, onto a washboard surface, and bumped along toward the foothills.

It seemed a funny place for a club — or for anything else. There was nothing out here but sand, sagebrush, and thorny ocotillo. As the boy had said, the last couple of miles the road was badly rutted, and I had to put the car in first gear. The road snaked through a wash, then up a steep rise toward where the eroded, wrinkled hills rose. At the top, I slammed on the brakes and stared.

It looked like no club I’d ever seen before in my life. I couldn’t imagine what activities the members could have engaged in out here in the barren desert, much less inside such an odd structure. And the place was no less strange for the fact that I had heard it described by Wolf when he was talking about the pictures he’d seen in the file in Jim Lauterbach’s office.

The house was low, built of adobe and native stone, whose color blended into the landscape. It was composed of curved, windowless walls and numerous cylindrical shapes, and the front door resembled the opening to a kiln. On its roof perched three giant air conditioners, known as swamp coolers, a type frequently used in desert climates. Even from where I sat in the car, I could hear their noisy rattling.

The house stood out against the heat-hazed hills and was surrounded by dark green greasewood bushes and the ashy-white shrubs known as burroweed. To the right, at a fair distance, were the remains of an old water tower and a loading platform that apparently had once served a spur railway. The sections of track that were still there were badly rusted. In front of the house was a large parking area with one car in it — an orange Datsun.

Well, at least there was someone here. Maybe now I’d get some answers to my questions.

I continued downward from the rise and parked next to the Datsun. Getting out of my car, I watched the house for a moment, and when no one came out, I went around the other car and checked the glove compartment for its registration.

The Datsun belonged to Karyn Sugarman.

I stared at the house again, my eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare, then went up to the door. The rattle of the swamp coolers was very loud, and I could smell the resiny sweet odor of the greasewood trees. I looked around for a doorbell, then noticed that the door stood open several inches.

Knocking on the frame, I called out, “Karyn? It’s Sharon McCone.” There was no answer. After a moment, I pushed the door open wider and looked in. There was a round entry with a slate floor and adobe walls the same color as the exterior of the house. No one was in sight.

I stepped through the door, calling out again. It was chill inside — and very quiet. The roar of the swamp coolers was muted by the thick walls and roof.

The curving wall of the entry was broken by five archways. The largest, straight ahead, led into a sunken living room crammed with brown modular couches that were strewn with lighter brown pillows. In the center was a round pit fireplace with a copper hood. I went down the three steps and stood looking around. The room was quite dark, because of the lack of windows, but I noticed track lighting on the ceiling. At the far side was a wet bar and on it stood a half-full bottle of Scotch.

A living room? What people in the seventies used to call a “conversation pit”? I spied a glass on the edge of the fireplace, about a quarter full of amber liquid and small fragments of ice. I went over and lifted it gingerly, sniffed its contents. Scotch, like the bottle on the bar. Someone had been sitting here with a pretty hefty drink — and not all that long ago.

Who? Sugarman? Probably. But then why hadn’t she answered my call?

I went back to the entry and through the next archway, calling out again. It opened into a formal dining room, replete with a huge table and silver candelabra. The table, however, was only two feet off the ground and surrounded by mats and pillows. It would have reminded me of a traditional Japanese restaurant, except the decor — ornate red and gold and black — was distinctly non-Oriental.

A swinging door led from the dining room to a kitchen full of stainless steel, butcher-block wood, a huge range, and three refrigerators. It had a sterile appearance, as if it hadn’t been used in a while. Retracing my steps through the dining room, I headed for the entry to try another of the archways. This time I didn’t call out; something about the silence in the house told me no one was here, in spite of Sugarman’s car.

The archway I chose led into a hall with six doors leading off it. I opened one and saw a round room — one of the cylindrical shapes I’d noticed from the front of the house — equipped with a water bed. There was clothing in the dresser drawers and in the closet — both men’s and women’s — but not more than one would need for a weekend. A connecting bath also contained only the necessities. I went through the door on the other side of it and stepped into a room with king-sized bed.

A woman’s tan leather purse lay on the bed, next to a half-packed overnight case. I picked up the purse, rummaged inside it, and found a wallet containing Karyn Sugarman’s driver’s license and credit cards.

She wouldn’t have gone away and left both her purse and her car. Unless she was out walking in the desert...

In this heat? She’d have to be crazy.

I looked more closely at the overnight case. It was partially filled with underthings, and one drawer of the dresser stood open. From the way the clothing was jumbled in the case, I guessed she had been packing rather than unpacking.

Why? I wondered. From what her secretary had implied, she’d only gone out of town this morning. Had she arrived here, unpacked and then changed her mind about staying? If so, what had caused that change? Or had she come here for the purpose of reclaiming these things?

Again — if that was the case — why? Because they provided a link between her and this place? Because something was wrong here and she didn’t want that connection made?

Hastily I went through three more bedrooms. Two contained water beds, another a conventional king-size. All had various personal effects stored in them, but not enough to indicate anyone lived here permanently. I hurried down the hall to the last door, stepped in, and recoiled at a sudden movement nearby. Then I realized what I’d seen was myself.

The room — round like the others, but much larger — was all mirrors. They covered the walls and the ceiling. The floor space was taken up by the most enormous round bed I’d ever seen, covered by an equally enormous fur spread.

I stared around and caught my wondering expression reflected over and over, everywhere I looked. And as the knowledge of what this room — indeed this whole house — was used for finally dawned on me, my expression became rueful.

Les Club. Not bad French — a pun. L-e-s was pronounced “lay.” Lay Club.

God, you’re innocent not to have figured it out before this, I told myself. You must have teddy bears in your brain.

I hurried back to the entry and tried the next archway. Inside was a projection room, equipped once again with modular furniture and throw pillows. A screen was pulled down across from a projection booth, and I went in there and examined the titles on the cans of film.

Skinkicks... The Licentious Landlord... Saturnalia... Carousal on the Carousel... Master of the Whip... Bottoms Up... Three’s a Sandwich...

I didn’t have to look at the films themselves to know what they were about.

I rushed out of the projection room, crossed the entry, and went through the last archway. There was a door just inside it, heavy and carved, hung on huge iron hinges, with a big key in an old-fashioned lock. I grasped the knob and pulled it open.

The inside was bathed in a blood-like gloom. I looked up and saw the source of the red glow: spots set into the ceiling. They were probably on a rheostat that had been turned down but not completely out. I felt around the door for the switch and pushed it up.

And found myself looking at a medieval dungeon.

“Jesus,” I said aloud.

It was like nothing I’d ever seen before in my life. An honest-to-God dungeon, with dark stone walls and chains hanging off them, and a rack of whips. Hooks stuck out from the walls at intervals, and on them were ropes and cat-o’-nine-tails and hoods like those worn during the Spanish Inquisition. There were handcuffs and masks and blindfolds and paddles...

Paddles. I remembered the sorority paddle in Elaine’s closet, the one that had surprised me because I hadn’t known she’d gone to college. And the handcuffs and leather thongs in her dresser drawer.

“Jesus,” I said again. Sado-masochism. Or perhaps the new, sanitized version — Domination and Submission — that they were now writing feature articles and pseudo-psychological books about. D and S had turned into a big business recently. In San Francisco, there was a place that gave workshops in it; publications dealing with the joys of what its adherents called “imaginative sex” had sprung up all over. But call it S and M, or D and S — what did it matter? It was all the same, differing only in degree.

I stepped back, leaning against the wall next to the door, and my hand brushed its surface. The stone wall was vinyl. Vinyl wallpaper.

It would have been funny if what I was looking at hadn’t been so disgusting. Disgusting and pathetic and sad.

I stood there, my eyes adjusting to the bloody light. Then I noticed that the room, unlike the others in the house, was not round but L-shaped. Mentally shuddering at what strange apparatus I might find there, I went over and peered around the corner into the other part of the ell.

It was smaller and more dimly lit. I could see more hooks with S and M paraphernalia. And elaborate three-foot-high sconces, also fitted with red bulbs. And on the far wall, a cross, made of sturdy pieces of wood nailed together.

Tied to the cross with heavy ropes was a figure. A long slender female figure whose head lolled to one side, its features obscured by a fall of light hair...

I drew in a shuddering breath and moved forward. The cross was set low on the wall, and her head was only a couple of feet above mine. I reached up, brushed the hair back. And stared into the contorted, blood-suffused face of Karyn Sugarman.

There were vicious bruises on her broken neck. Blood had flowed from her nostrils but was now dry. Her eyes stared blankly at some point in eternity.

There was a ringing in my ears, and my vision blurred. I stepped back, letting her hair cover her mottled features again. My stomach lurched and I fought for control.

Got to get out of here, I thought. Get to a phone, call the police. Get help...

Behind me, in the other arm of the ell, I heard a noise. My stomach lurched again. I whirled and ran back along the wall and around the corner.

No one was in sight. But the door to the dungeon was shut and somebody was turning the key in the latch.