The Hidden: A Novel of Suspense

N I N E

I KNEW IT,” MACKLIN SAID. “I knew Lomax was the kind of lowlife bastard who beats up on his wife. Didn’t I tell you there were bad vibes in that house?”

“Yes, you told me.”

“I didn’t like him the minute I laid eyes on him. Standing there with that gun in his hand— Christ! You don’t suppose he’d use it on her, do you?”

“He might, with enough provocation. He’s an angry, violent, abusive drunk. Unpredictable.”

“Paula knows it, too. Probably another reason why she left.”

“Probably.”

“Did you say anything to Claire about the gun?”

“No. What could I say?”

“Well, she should be aware of the risk.”

“She’s aware of it,” Shelby said. “She’s not stupid.”

“Then why doesn’t she hide the gun somewhere? Or get rid of it—throw it into the ocean?”

“She’s too afraid of doing anything that might set him off again. What she really needs to do is leave him and get a restraining order, but she’s like so many battered wives—she just doesn’t have the courage.”

They were standing on the platform at the bluff’s edge. Shelby hadn’t been in the cottage when he got back from Seacrest; he’d come down here looking for her, found her just climbing the steps from the beach. The look on her face prompted him to ask what was wrong and she’d told him. And in turn he’d told her about his brief encounter with Paula Decker in Seacrest.

He said, “You think Claire has been having an affair?”

“She didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

“Paula called her a nasty little bitch.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Paula’s one herself. If Claire’s been sleeping with somebody else, she was driven to it. I wouldn’t blame her.”

“Neither would I. A woman trapped in a lousy marriage has a right to—”

He broke off. Subtle shift from the impersonal to the personal in what he’d been about to say. Shelby was also a woman trapped in what was becoming, or in her eyes might have already become, a lousy marriage. Different kind of lousy, sure—he’d never raised a hand to her and never would—but just as unhappy. He didn’t believe she’d cheat on him; he’d never once considered cheating on her. If she did, though, he couldn’t blame her any more than she blamed Claire Lomax. But he didn’t want to know. Ever. No matter what happened between them, he needed his bedrock beliefs intact, his memories untainted.

“Well, anyhow,” he said, “I don’t think we should have anything more to do with those people.”

“I feel the same way. But if Claire comes to me for help, I’m not going to turn my back on her.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Let’s go on up,” Shelby said. “It’s chilly out here.”

Macklin made lunch for them from his Seacrest purchases: cracked crab, pasta salad, sourdough French bread. They didn’t talk any more about the Lomaxes, or about much of anything else.

The afternoon passed in what seemed like stalled time. They played a couple of games of Scrabble, a board game they’d always enjoyed … he’d always enjoyed, anyway. Played mostly in silence. Shelby’s mind clearly wasn’t on it today, although she won the second game on the strength of a 66-point, triple-word, double-letter-V score with the word quiver.

She didn’t want to play a third. He suggested they take a nap together; the look she gave him quashed that idea. What would she like to do then? She said she didn’t know, what did he want to do? Paddy Chayefsky dialogue. I dunno, Marty, what do you feel like doing?

Oh yeah, they were having a great time. Some real spousal bonding going on here.

He sat there feeling frustrated and ineffectual as hell. What kind of man couldn’t amuse his wife or himself, just kept on finding ways to bore the crap out of both of them?

This was something else he hated about himself, this nagging feeling of inadequacy. He’d had plenty of self-confidence once because there’d been more than a few things he’d been good at. School subjects—English, American lit, history, even math. Cooking. Baseball.

God yes, baseball.

The game had come easy to him, every phase of it—hitting, base running, fielding. He’d had a .373 average his first year at UC Santa Cruz, fifteen home runs and a dozen stolen bases. Been just as good if not better on defense—covered more ground, caught more balls than any outfielder on any team he’d played with, from Little League to college. Pro potential, no question, until the home-plate collision that blew out his knee and left him unable to run with any speed.

One catch he’d made his first year in college was forever sharp in his memory. Ninth inning, two out, Cal Poly with the bases loaded, Santa Cruz up by a run. Towering drive by their cleanup hitter that he saw all the way, as soon as it left the aluminum bat with that booming metallic clang. Fast and easy backward glide to the warning track at the centerfield fence, and then up, up, he’d never jumped higher, must’ve been two feet off the ground when the ball smacked into the webbing of his glove, then his body slamming hard into the fence and the impact popping the ball out, but seeing that too as if it were happening in slow motion and snatching it in midair with his left hand as he was falling, cradling it against his chest when he hit the ground, rolling over and coming up holding the ball high like a trophy, and the ump making the out sign and the fans cheering and his teammates running toward him shouting his name … He’d been a big dog that day, he’d stood taller than the eight-foot fence that day.

Making love, that was another thing he was good at. No brag—simple fact. Not because he was one of these stallion types who equated sex with running a marathon race. Because the important thing to him was pleasing his partner; the better it was for her, the better it was for him. The night he’d lost his virginity, when he was a sophomore in high school, the girl had said to him afterward, “Wow! I can’t believe it was your first time.” And Shelby, their first time together: “Oh God, Jay, you’re so gentle, it was so good.” This wasn’t empty flattery; she’d said similar things any number of other times before and after they were married. But not in so long now he couldn’t remember the last time—

“Jay. Jay!”

“… What?”

“Are you going to just sit there staring into space?”

“Sorry. No.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s go down to the beach.”

She wasn’t enthusiastic about that, either, since she’d already been down there, but when he went to put on his coat she got up and joined him.

They avoided the northern part of the cove, made their way down to where the landmass marked the end of Ben’s property. The tide was out and they were able to skirt around the point onto the beach below the big neighboring estate.

Quite a place, from what he could see of it through a long open crease in the cliffside. What must be the main house sprawled back behind a long redwood deck—two stories of weird angles and windows in different geometric shapes, all of it looking cobbled together as if from a collection of mismatched pieces. There was a kind of a dormer at one end that was almost as high as the backdrop of pines.

“Some architect’s wet dream,” Macklin said. “I’ll bet Lomax hates it.”

“Why would anyone build a home like that if they weren’t going to live in it full time?”

“More money than good sense.”

“It’s a wonder the Coastal Commission approved the plans.”

“With enough money you can get anything done.”

“Well, we’ll never know if that’s true or not.” Trace of bitterness in her voice? Hard to tell, with the wind yowling at them.

“No,” he said. “I guess we never will.”

They didn’t stay long. The wind gained velocity, sweeping in vanguards from a wall of fog that was making up offshore. The sudden drop in temperature drove them back up the steps to the bluff top.

Just as they were coming onto the landing, there was a loud engine roar and a harsh clash of gears from out on the lane. Sports car, shooting past toward the highway—Decker’s Porsche. Another grinding downshift, and the engine sound faded to silence.

Macklin said disgustedly, “Sweet car like that Boxster—Decker treats it the way he treats his wife, like crap.”

“He must’ve decided to go home after all.”

“Or off to see one of his girlfriends, or to the store for more booze.”

“If he’s going to Santa Rosa, I’d like to think Claire’s with him.”

“Probably not, from what she told you today.”

“No, probably not.”

Inside the cottage, he stacked kindling and started a fire while Shelby rummaged through the music CDs, selected one, and plugged it into the boom box. Classical stuff, baroque, a violin concerto—Vivaldi, he thought. She knew he didn’t much care for that kind of thing; his taste in classical music ran to the soft background variety, Brahms or Mozart, but what he really liked was jazz, any style but preferably Ellington or Coltrane or Miles Davis. He wondered if she’d picked Vivaldi to irritate him. No, she wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t petty. Probably chose that CD because it matched her mood.

Shelby curled up with a book in one of the chairs facing the fire. So he rummaged around in the bookcase and found a local history of the Mendocino coast from Gualala to Fort Bragg. History was a subject he’d always enjoyed—American, foreign, regional, all kinds. One of his pet peeves was the average person’s ignorance of and disinterest in past events. How could you understand what was going on today in politics, economics, religion, countries like Iraq and Afghanistan, society in general if you didn’t know or care what influenced and shaped each over years, decades, centuries? How could you support your opinions and make informed decisions without a historical foundation?

The book was easy reading and informative—a good thing, because his attention span wasn’t what it used to be. He hadn’t known that this part of the coast had been a hotbed of liquor smuggling during Prohibition. Ships loaded with Canadian whiskey had made regular runs down from British Columbia, anchoring just outside the five-mile limit, and rumrunners had gone out in launches and fishing boats and brought in cases and hid them in barns until they could be trucked inland across the Coast Range. Around the time of Repeal there’d been a gun battle between bootleggers and federal agents in a place called Bourne’s Landing, near Gualala. One of the agents had been wounded and another one kidnapped and held hostage.

Exciting times. Bad times, too. Andrew Volstead’s so-called noble experiment had been anything but. Hadn’t somebody once said that the country would’ve been saved a lot of grief if Volstead had been a drunk like everybody else?

Macklin lowered the book so he could watch Shelby over the top of it, something he never tired of doing. Her slender body was as flexible as a cat’s; she sat coiled with her legs tucked under her, her head tilted away from him, seemingly absorbed in her paperback. Her face, in profile and lit by the fire, had a kind of Madonna-like radiance.

He loved her so damn much.