Kill Her Again

4 2

In the end, it took them four hours to drive to Allenwood.

Anna rented the car, a Nissan Pathfinder, on her bureau account, which, to her surprise, hadn’t yet been suspended.

They took the I-15 past the Mojave National Preserve, then cut over to the 58, through Barstow and Boron and California City.

As she drove, Anna looked out at the desolate desert landscape and again wondered how people found themselves out here, living so far away, it seemed, from civilization. Yes, they had their shopping malls and their satellite TV, but the sun would bake you alive and turn your skin as rough as alligator hide, and she just couldn’t fathom the attraction this part of the world held for those who lived here.

About halfway through the drive, they switched off, Pope taking the wheel for a spell. Anna settled back in the passenger seat, trying to get some sleep, but was too keyed up to manage it.

She knew that Pope was doubtful about this trip. That he thought a visit to Antonija Zala was most likely a waste of time. And she appreciated his willingness to come with her anyway.

When she looked at him, sitting behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, she thought about how natural they were together. As if, without even knowing it, they had been searching for each other all of their lives. All of their many lives, perhaps.

She imagined herself as a seventeen-year-old Roma girl, posing for Jonathan O’Keefe’s camera, and later, sneaking off in the darkness to be with him. To feel his hands upon her, just as she’d felt Pope’s hands last night.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he’d said to her this morning.

And although she felt the same, she hadn’t been able to express it. Despite what they’d been through together, despite her complete abandon when they had made love, she couldn’t commit herself beyond the moment, because she had no idea how all of this would turn out.

And Red Cap’s success rate did not encourage her.

Unlike Pope, Anna didn’t think this trip was a waste of time. Knew in her gut that Antonija Zala would have the answers she sought. Just as she’d known she was meant to be here.

She felt as if she was being guided by a sixth sense. Some sort of cosmic homing device had been planted in her brain and she was zeroing in on the signal. And no matter what anyone else might think, she had to follow that signal until she found its source.

They saw the amusement park well before they reached the city proper.

Its rusted, steel-framed roller coaster was easily visible from the highway, standing out in stark relief against the desert sky.

Close by stood the mountain itself, all plaster and peeling paint, the sign atop it missing several of its letters:

B G MOU T N

It was surrounded by a sagging, weatherworn aluminum fence, topped with several coils of barbed wire.

Anna was saddened by the sight of it. It seemed to represent hope gone sour. Someone’s dream destroyed by time and indifference. A lifeless body lying on the side of the road, decaying in the hot desert sun, as the cars whizzing past paid little or no attention to it.

She thought about Jillian Carpenter and little Suzie Oliver riding that roller coaster, screaming in terror and delight as their car rose and dipped and turned. And in a way, this park represented them quite well.

One dead. One broken.

Pope pointed toward a highway sign. “There’s the turnoff.” It read: ALLENWOOD.

“This is it,” Anna said. “I can feel it. The place where it all comes together.”

Or falls apart, she thought.

It was an old, mid-sized city whose better days were behind it. Its population was well into the thousands, but was only half what it had been in its heyday.

Anna had looked it up on Wikipedia, which had described it as one of the fifteen poorest cities in the state. Big Mountain had been its stab at pulling itself out of a sustained economic slump. There had been an upturn in the beginning, but when the park ultimately failed, the fallout had been disastrous, leaving a city whose residents relied largely on welfare and public assistance.

Antonija Zala lived in the heart of what a dilapidated sign said was GYPSY TOWN.

“Not very PC,” Pope said as they drove past.

The streets were dusty and pockmarked, the storefronts in serious need of paint and repair. Some of the windows were boarded up. Others mended with masking tape.

“One-twenty-three Bronson Avenue,” Anna said, consulting the directions she’d printed out. “Turn left at the stop sign.”

Pope made the turn and drove slowly down a street that was more or less identical to the previous one-except for one major difference, which they nearly found out about too late.

“Shit!” he shouted, slamming the brakes.

They came to a skidding halt just inches from a large sinkhole, and Anna felt her stomach lurch up into her throat. The hole-more of a trench, really-spread all the way across the street, making it impossible to go farther by car.

Letting out a shaky breath, Pope backed up, then pulled the Pathfinder to the curb.

“A few barricades and a couple of warning signs would’ve been nice,” Anna said.

Pope shrugged. “We’re probably the first traffic this place has seen in months.” He killed the engine and unlocked the doors. “Looks like we’re on foot.”

Fortunately, the sidewalk was still intact. They climbed out of the Pathfinder and continued up the street, checking the addresses as they went.

Number 123 was set back from the street, not immediately visible until you were right up on it. It was a large, ramshackle Victorian, a remnant of an older neighborhood, whose owners had apparently refused to cooperate when it came time to revamp and rebuild.

There was a sign in the front window and Anna felt a stab of disappointment the moment she saw it.

It featured a red neon palm with the words FORTUNE-TELLER above it.

And beneath, in smaller print, it read:

MADAM ZALA KNOWS ALL