V is for Vengeance

26

Dante had given her a key to the beach house. In her mind’s eye she was already there, waiting for him to appear. In reality, Channing had postponed his return to L.A. until Tuesday morning, which nearly drove her insane. She’d managed to get in a quick call to Dante’s private line, where she left a message indicating she couldn’t see him that day. Monday went on forever, so dull and flat she wondered how she’d endured before Dante came along. Tuesday morning, she and Channing ate breakfast together, their conversation pleasant and inconsequential. The entire time she thought about Dante. It was almost as though he were sitting at the table with them, and she wondered if Thelma was present as well. She pondered the complexities of the human heart, cunning, opaque, unknowable, and impervious to judgment. What one did in the world at large might be condemned, but thoughts and feelings and daydreams were protected by the simple expedient of silence. How easy it was to deceive Channing, whose inner state was as unavailable to her as hers was to him. How many times had they sat at this same table, conducting the ordinary business of life? Courtesy served as an artful disguise that veiled the more profound dialogue of fantasy and desire. Toast, coffee, talk of her appointment in Santa Monica later in the day. She told Channing she’d set up a meeting with her broker to review her portfolio. He urged her to stop by the office and she demurred, citing a round of errands. The exchange was perfunctory. She’d never understood Channing so well or liked him so little, but at least her infidelity had evened the score. Maybe one day she’d tell him. She hadn’t decided yet. She walked with him to the door and they kissed briefly. She took care to give no indication of her impatience to have him gone or the giddiness she felt at what was to come. The minute he was out of the house, she put on her sweats and walking shoes and drove to the house on Paloma Lane.

She left her car in the motor court at the beach house and tramped through the soft sand to the hard pack. She did her four miles on the beach, timing herself since she had no way to measure distances. Beach access was blocked in places, which forced her into detours that took her up a set of steep wooden stairs built into the hillside and through two gated communities otherwise closed to the public. She emerged on the two-lane road that passed in front of the Edgewater Hotel, pausing to allow two cars to pass. The first turned into the driveway leading to the hotel entrance. The second came to a stop. She heard a horn toot and looked over as the driver rolled down her window.

“I thought I recognized you,” the woman said, with what passed for gaiety. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

Imelda Malcolm lived two doors away from the Vogelsangs’ Montebello house. She was in her early sixties and bird thin, with sparse hair dyed a tawny shade. She pushed her sunglasses up on her head and her washed-out gray eyes were sharp. Imelda walked the neighborhood streets, and Nora had learned to avoid the woman by varying her time and route so their paths wouldn’t cross. Imelda was a vicious gossip, unapologetic about her rumormongering. Nora had joined her a few times just after they moved to town and noted that even in the open air, Imelda’s comments were made under her breath, as though the intimacies she passed along weren’t meant to be overheard. It gave Nora the uncomfortable sense that she was supporting Imelda’s malevolence.

“I like the occasional change of scene,” Nora said. “How about you?”

Imelda made a face. “I told Polly I’d sport her to a facial. You know Rex filed for Chapter 13 or maybe it was Chapter 7, I forget which. Talk about a low blow.”

“I heard. That’s too bad.”

“Horrible,” Imelda said. “Polly says she can’t bear to walk into the club, and not just because they’re so far in arrears. I’m sure Mitchell will find a way to let them know they’re not welcome anymore, though he has too much class to make a scene. She says the women aren’t actually cutting her, but the pity is more than she can stand. Have you seen her lately?”

“Not since New Year’s.”

“Oh, my god. She looks awful. Don’t tell anyone I said so, but I promise you she’s aged fifteen years. And she didn’t look that good to begin with, if you’ll pardon the observation.”

“I’m sure they’ll weather the storm,” Nora said. She glanced at her watch and Imelda picked up on the hint.

“I won’t keep you,” she said. “I’m glad I ran into you. I was going to call you about bridge tomorrow afternoon. Mittie’s doing pre-op appointments for the work she’s having done, and I thought with Channing gone, you’d have time on your hands.”

“Won’t work,” Nora said promptly. “I have to be in L.A. I’m just waiting for a call back from our accountant to set a time. Besides, I haven’t played for months. I’d make a miserable partner for anyone.”

“Don’t be silly. This is four tables. Lunch and lots of wine so no one takes it seriously. We’re playing again on Friday, so I’ll put your name down.”

“I’ll have to check my calendar and get back to you.”

“My house. Eleven thirty. We’re usually done by three.”

She did a little finger wave, rolled up her window, and glided away.

Nora closed her eyes, so irritated with the woman she could hardly move. She loathed presumption. She loathed the sort of female aggression Imelda wielded as a matter of course. As soon as she reached the beach house, she’d call and leave a message on Imelda’s answering machine saying she’d forgotten a prior engagement. So sorry. Kiss, kiss. Maybe another time. Imelda would know she was lying, but what could she do? Nora continued to the seawall and picked her way down the battered concrete stairs that put her back on the beach. If Imelda ever got wind of Nora’s relationship with Dante, she’d have a field day.

In truth, she was embarrassed she’d slept with the man. What was the matter with her that she’d succumbed so easily? She knew there was anger at Channing buried in the act. What distressed her was the truth about herself embedded in her decision. Apparently, she didn’t require longevity or trust or the sanctity of marriage. All she needed was the opportunity and there she was, flinging off her clothes in a white-hot flash of desire. Granted, Dante was spectacular, giving and tireless and loving and complimentary-the latter being another source of dismay. Remembering certain things he’d said to her, she felt easily gulled, a woman so shallow that the slightest praise had her flat on her back with her legs in the air. Had Thelma surrendered as easily? Good wine, a few superficial strokes, and she’d hopped in the sack without regard to Channing’s marital status. Now Nora had tossed aside loyalty and fidelity, and while she was ashamed of her behavior, she was also unrepentant. The recollection made her shiver and the shivering made her smile.

By 10:00, she was showered and lying naked on a double chaise longue on the deck at the beach house, protected from view by the half wall and the darkly tinted glass windbreak above. The sun felt extraordinary on her skin. She sensed the tension draining out of her, and without even meaning to she fell asleep.

She was wakened by a rustling and opened her eyes to see Dante, also naked, sitting on the chaise next to hers. He had her handbag at his feet and her passport in his hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Memorizing the number on your passport. I can do that when I put my mind to it. It’s like taking a picture.”

“Where’d you get my passport?”

“It was in your bag. Why keep it with you, are you going someplace?”

“I picked it up at the bank the other day and forgot to leave it at the house. Why are you going through my handbag?”

“It seemed rude to ask how old you are so I thought I’d see for myself.”

She smiled. “My age is no secret.”

“Now it’s not. March 15th. The Ides,” he said. “Here’s something you probably don’t know: The Ides refers to the 15th of March, May, July, and October. Refers to the 13th of all other months. My birthday’s November 13th, so that’s the Ides, just like yours.”

“Meaning what?”

“Nothing. I just think it’s interesting,” he said.

He returned the passport and moved forward until he was kneeling on the deck. He placed his mouth on her breast. She made an involuntarily sound, low in her throat, as the heat opened her at the core. The two of them moved into their lovemaking with an ease that suggested they’d been together for years. There was an intensity she couldn’t remember ever experiencing, and she gave up all sense of herself, responding with a tenderness that matched his.

Afterward they showered together and then wrapped themselves in terry cloth bath sheets and returned to the deck. Dante had brought a bottle of Champagne and two crystal flutes, and they toasted their own joy. It felt wicked to sip Champagne at this hour of the day. “Almost forgot,” Dante said. He got up and went into the bedroom, returning moments later with a handful of travel brochures he dropped into her lap.

“What are these?”

“The Maldives. That’s where I’m going when the time comes. Maybe the Philippines, I haven’t decided yet. I brought brochures for both because I thought you might like to see them.” He sat down on the edge of the chaise and loosened his towel.

She opened the first brochure, which showed photographs of the Maldives, teal and aquamarine waters with islands like stepping-stones spread out across the sea. She sent him a curious look, wondering how serious he was. “I thought you were under indictment. They’re not going to let you go out of the country.”

“Just because they won’t let me doesn’t mean I won’t go.”

“Aren’t they holding your passport?”

“I’ve got another.”

“What if they intercept you at the airport?”

“They can’t intercept me if they don’t know. I’ve got a fortune in offshore bank accounts. I’ve been planning this for years.”

She held up the brochures. “Why the Maldives? I don’t even know where they are.”

“The Indian Ocean, two hundred and fifty miles southwest of India. Temperatures run between seventy and ninety-one year round. They don’t have extradition treaties with the U.S. There are other choices-Ethiopia or Iran, if you’d prefer. You like Botswana, I’ll throw it in for laughs.”

“What in the world would you do with yourself?”

“I don’t know. Rest. Read. Eat. Drink. Make love to you. Study the language.”

“Which is what?”

“Don’t know yet. I’ll find out when I get there. I’ll have Lou Elle call you with the details, but only if you’re coming with me. Otherwise, the less you know, the better.”

“You think I’d go?”

“Why not? There’s nothing keeping you here. All you need with you is an overnight case. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“No problem. I understand you need time to consider. I’m laying it out so you know what we’re dealing with.”

“You know I’m not going.”

“I don’t know that and neither do you.”

She sat up, pulling the towel around her. “Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”

“What is it ‘not’?”

“It’s not deep or complex or even very significant. It’s a way to spend the morning when I’m not getting my hair done.”

“So I’m just a trivial screw?”

“I never said you were trivial.”

“But I’m just some guy you’re screwing. It doesn’t mean anything more to you?”

“That’s correct.”

“You’re lying.”

“Yes, I’m lying. Let’s just leave it at that.” She knotted the towel in front and got up.

He grabbed her hand. “Don’t go. Don’t walk away from me. Sit.”

“There’s no point in talking about a future when we don’t have one.”

“Listen to me. Would you just listen? Don’t hide from me. Don’t hold back. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is just a fling, but that’s not what it feels like to me. If this is all we have, then let’s be honest with each other. Can’t we do that?”

She looked down at him. His was a face she loved, but she couldn’t tell him that. He tugged at her hand and she sat down beside him.

He lifted her hand and put her fingers against his lips. “Nora, whatever happens-whether you go with me or not-you’ve gotta get out of that marriage. Maybe that’s what I am to you, a midwife, delivering you from him.”

“We’ve been through a lot together. You don’t throw away a life because it’s rough now and then. History counts for something.”

“No, it doesn’t. You think being in a bad relationship for a long time makes it worthwhile? It doesn’t. It’s more time wasted. Fourteen years of misery is fourteen too many.”

“Channing and I have had good years. I don’t cut and run.”

“What about your ex? You don’t think divorce is a form of running away?”

“We didn’t divorce. He died.”

“Of what?”

“A fluke; a heart anomaly he’d had since birth, something the doctors missed. He was a banker. He had a great job. He was thirty-six years old with no idea whatsoever he was living on borrowed time. I thought life was perfect. We had each other, we had our boy. We also had a hefty mortgage and a lot of credit card debt. What we didn’t have was life insurance, so when he dropped dead, I was left without a dime. I was thirty-four years old and I’d never held a job. I was in a panic, desperate for someone to take care of me. I met Channing six months later and by the time Tripp had been gone a year, I was married to him. My son was eleven. Channing’s twin girls were thirteen.”

Dante squinted at her. “What did you say?”

“About what?”

“Did you say ‘Tripp’?”

“Yes.”

“You were married to Tripp Lanahan?”

“I’ve mentioned him before.”

“You never said his name. I had no idea.”

“Well, now you know,” she said. She glanced at him. The color had drained from his face and he was staring at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re white as a sheet.”

He shook his head briefly, as though to ward off a ringing in his ears. “We did business once. He approved the loan when I was buying my house. No other banker in town would touch me because of what I did for a living.”

She smiled. “He was a good judge of human nature and he wasn’t afraid to bend the rules.”

Dante hung his head. He’d said the same thing about Tripp in referring to him. He ran a hand down his face, pulling his features out of alignment.

She put her arm around him and gave him a squeeze. “I have to go. I told Channing I had a meeting with my broker in Santa Monica. It sounded like a lie when I said it, but it turns out to be the case. Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” He put his hand over hers without quite meeting her eyes.

She tilted her head and leaned against him. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll call and let you know. You drive safely.”

“I will.”

The meeting with her broker was brief. He was in his early seventies, lean and humorless. He’d managed her portfolio for twenty years, so long he thought of it as his own. When she told him she was cashing in her stocks, he seemed confused. “Which ones?”

“All of them.”

“May I ask why?”

“I don’t like what the market’s doing. I want out.”

He was silent for a moment, and she could see him struggle to frame his response. “I can appreciate your concern, but this isn’t the time to bail out. I’d have to advise against anything so precipitant. It’s not smart.”

“Fine. You’ve advised me. You can transfer the money to my Wells Fargo account in Santa Teresa. Minus your commission, of course.”

“Perhaps you’re having problems,” he said, too proper to ask outright.

“Perhaps, but not of the sort you imagine.”

“Because you know you can talk to me if there’s anything amiss. I’m in your camp.”

“I appreciate your loyalty.”

“Is this coming from Channing?”

“Please, Mark. Just do what I’ve asked. Put in the sell orders and let me know when everything’s cleared.”

In the car, driving north along Pacific Coast Highway from Santa Monica, she lowered the window and let her hair blow around her face. She hadn’t realized her intention until she spoke of it aloud. She liked the idea of having all that cash on hand… should the need arise. She wasn’t thinking about what might happen in the coming weeks. She wasn’t thinking of packing or of meeting Dante at the airport or of getting on a plane. All those actions lay beyond the realm of propriety, personal dignity, and common sense. But what if, at the last minute, she should change her mind? What if what seemed so impossible right now became imperative to her sense of herself? She needed to be prepared should the need arise. That’s how she thought of it. Should the need arise. That notion was the motivation for her stopping by the bank to empty her safe-deposit box before she’d left for Santa Monica that morning. It was the reason she’d kept her passport with her this past week, relieved the expiration date was still six years hence. Should the need arise had her counting the cash she had on hand, tucking her good jewelry in her handbag. If she didn’t go anywhere-which she probably wouldn’t-then what had she really lost? The cash would go back in the bank and she’d use the money she’d netted from the sale of her stocks to buy into the market again.

Turning right off PCH, she began the long, twisted ascent to the house. Set against a wide, pale blue sky, she could see four enormous birds circling, wings outstretched, silver flight feathers visible as they rode the thermal currents. If there were ever an act she envied, it would be the graceful gliding of such birds, soaring without effort, sailing on the wind, the land spread out beneath them as they lifted and wheeled. It would be quiet up there, peaceful, and the ocean would go on for miles.

She kept an eye on them, wondering what had drawn them to the mountain. As the road wound upward, she realized they were larger than she’d first thought, turkey vultures by the look of them, with six-foot wingspans. She’d seen them up close on occasion, tearing at carcasses on the road, their featherless heads and necks red and scaly-looking. They had a reputation for being gentle and efficient, nature’s humble servants cleaning up carrion. Being bald, they could plunge their heads deep inside a carcass to get at the rich inner meat.

She turned into the driveway and left her car on the parking pad. She’d expected to see Mr. Ishiguro’s pickup truck with its cargo of rakes and brooms. The housecleaning crew had come and gone. She saw the bulging bags of trash they’d discarded in their wake. The vultures were directly overhead, like fast-moving clouds that blotted the sunlight. One vulture had settled on top of a garbage can, and he fixed her with a look, his posture hunched and cunning. The vulture hissed at her and launched itself laboriously, with a noisy flap of its wings. She opened the lid of the garbage can and recoiled from the stench and the swarm of flies. Mr. Ishiguro had discarded a rotting chicken carcass. Nora banged down the lid, hand against her mouth as though to shield herself from the repulsive clot of flesh.

Channing said he’d bait the leg-hold traps with chicken carcasses, but how many had he set? Taped to the glass in the back door, she found an envelope that contained the receipts for three traps Mr. Ishiguro had purchased. The chicken carcasses he must have acquired without charge. She unlocked the back door and tossed her handbag and the envelope on the counter. She flipped off her sandals and found a pair of running shoes she pulled on without socks. She grabbed two pieces of firewood and went out the back door again. She pushed through the gate in the retaining wall and set off along the fire path, her gaze raking the landscape for signs of a trap. She found the first in a tangle of brush that Mr. Ishiguro had apparently used to disguise the heavy iron jaws of the device. The carcass was still there, and she used one piece of firewood to trip the mechanism. The jaw snapped shut and broke the four-inch-thick branch in half, sending the pieces flying past her face. Nora jumped, shrieking, and then set off again, nimbly avoiding the paddle cactus that threatened her on all sides. She found nothing more on that narrow dirt lane, and when she reached an intersecting path, she eased down along the incline, hoping she wouldn’t fall.

Two big vultures had settled on the ground like sentinels, guarding their find. The male coyote had been caught in the second trap. Aside from the birds, she might not have noticed him except for the female trotting nervously back and forth across the path below her. Mr. Ishiguro had concealed the trap in a soft mound of dry grass. The coyote lay on his side, panting. There was no way of knowing how long he’d been there. His left hind leg was broken, the jagged bone end protruding. The ground around him was dark with blood. She stood stock still, not wanting to frighten the animal into a renewed attempt to escape. He rested. After a minute, he lifted his head again and twisted sideways to lick the wound. His suffering had to be acute, but he made no sound. His dull gaze settled on her with indifference. What was she to him when he was battling for his life?

The hillside was hot, the air dusty with the little eddies of wind that picked up now and then. Nora turned on her heel and went back to the house. She was fearful and weeping, desperate to do something to end the animal’s suffering. She went upstairs. She opened the bed table on Channing’s side and took out his gun. He’d showed her how to load and fire the High Standard pistol with its push-button barrel takedown. The rear sight was stationary and micro-adjustable for elevation and wind. He’d been reluctant to buy the gun but he’d done so at her insistence. She was there in the house alone on too many occasions to be left without a way to defend herself. She checked to see that it was loaded. The gun weighed fifty-two ounces and she had to hold it with both hands as she went downstairs and out the back door.

The female coyote had circled within range of her mate. She sat some distance away, in his line of sight, whining to herself. The male was diminished by pain. He lunged and thrust with his lean body, scrabbling for purchase against the weight of the trap. He looked at Nora. She could almost swear the coyote knew what she was about to do. In the depths of his yellow eyes, a spark of recognition flashed between them, her acknowledgment of his suffering and his acceptance of the bond. She had the power to free him and there was only one way out. He was too wild a creature to allow her to get close enough to release him, even if she had a way to do so. The vultures flapped upward and circled above, eyeing her with interest.

She wept. She couldn’t bear to look at him, but she refused to look away. That this amazing beast had fallen, that he’d been subjected to such cruelty was unthinkable, but there he lay, exhausted, his breathing shallow. To delay his death meant extending his agony. If she had no way to spare him, then she couldn’t spare herself. She fired. One bullet and he was gone. The female watched incuriously as Nora sank to the ground close to the male. His mate turned and trotted down the trail and out of sight. She’d return to her pups. She’d go out hunting alone. She’d teach them to hunt as well, venturing into civilized territory if that was the only way to find food. She’d show them the sources of water. If rabbits and squirrels and moles were scarce, she’d show them where to find insects, how to run down, topple, and disembowel house cats inadvertently left outside at night. She’d do the job that was left to her in the only way she knew, driven by instinct.

Nora returned to the house, holding the gun at her side. There was a black sedan parked next to her Thunderbird, and as she approached, two gentlemen in suits emerged and greeted her politely. There was nothing threatening about them, but she disliked them on sight. Both were clean-cut, one in his fifties, the other midthirties. The younger man said, “Mrs. Vogelsang?”

He handed her a business card. “I’m Special Agent Driscoll and this is my partner, Special Agent Montaldo. We’re FBI. I wonder if we might talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Lorenzo Dante.”

She blinked at the two of them, making up her mind, and then went into the house without a word. The two men followed her in.