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  An hour later, they carried the empty crates down to the basement and came back upstairs to have a beer. Then they sliced open the layers of tissue, exposing paintings and graphics in a variety of frames, including a few that looked as if the artist had nailed them together himself out of barn siding. Jack’s pictures occupied a category Dale vaguely thought of as “modern art.” He did not grasp what some of these things were supposed to be about, although he actually liked almost all of them, especially a couple of landscapes. He knew that he had never heard of the artists, but their names, he thought, would be recognized by the kind of people who lived in big cities and hung out in museums and galleries. All this art—all of these images large and small now lined up on the kitchen floor—stunned him, not altogether pleasantly. He really had entered another world, and he knew none of its landmarks. Then he remembered that he and Jack Sawyer were going to hang these pictures on the walls of his parents’ old house. Immediately, unexpected warmth flooded into this notion and filled it to the brim. Why shouldn’t adjoining worlds mingle now and then? And wasn’t this other world Jack’s?

  “All right,” he said. “I wish Henry, that uncle I was telling you about? Who lives right down the road? I wish he could see this stuff. Henry, he’d know how to appreciate it.”

  “Why won’t he be able to see them? I’ll invite him over.”

  “Didn’t I say?” Dale asked. “Henry’s blind.”

  Paintings went up on the living-room walls, ascended the stairwell, moved into the bedrooms. Jack put up a couple of small pictures in the upstairs bathroom and the little half bath on the ground floor. Dale’s arms began to ache from holding the frames while Jack marked the places where the nails would go in. After the first three paintings, he had removed his necktie and rolled up his sleeves, and he could feel sweat trickling out of his hair and sliding down his face. His unbuttoned collar had soaked through. Jack Sawyer had worked as hard or harder than he, but looked as if he had done nothing more strenuous than think about dinner.

  “You’re like an art collector, huh?” Dale said. “Did it take a long time to get all these paintings?”

  “I don’t know enough to be a collector,” Jack said. “My father picked up most of this work back in the fifties and sixties. My mother bought a few things, too, when she saw something that turned her on. Like that little Fairfield Porter over there, with the front porch and a lawn and the flowers.”

  The little Fairfield Porter, which name Dale assumed to be that of its painter, had appealed to him as soon as he and Jack had pulled it out of its crate. You could hang a picture like that in your own living room. You could almost step into a picture like that. The funny thing was, Dale thought, if you hung it in your living room, most of the people who came in would never really notice it at all.

  Jack had said something about being glad to get the paintings out of storage. “So,” Dale said, “your mom and dad gave them to you?”

  “I inherited them after my mother’s death,” Jack said. “My father died when I was a kid.”

  “Oh, darn, I’m sorry,” Dale said, snapped abruptly out of the world into which Mr. Fairfield Porter had welcomed him. “Had to be tough on you, losing your dad so young.” He thought Jack had given him the explanation for the aura of apartness and isolation that seemed always to envelop him. A second before Jack could respond, Dale told himself he was bullshitting. He had no idea how someone wound up being like Jack Sawyer.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “Fortunately, my mother was even tougher.”

  Dale seized his opportunity with both hands. “What did your folks do? Were you brought up in California?”

  “Born and raised in Los Angeles,” Jack said. “My parents were in the entertainment industry, but don’t hold that against them. They were great people.”

  Jack did not invite him to stay for supper—that was what stuck with Dale. Over the hour and a half it took them to hang the rest of the pictures, Jack Sawyer remained friendly and good-humored, but Dale, who was not a cop for nothing, sensed something evasive and adamant in his friend’s affability: a door had opened a tiny crack, then slammed shut. The phrase “great people” had placed Jack’s parents out of bounds. When the two men broke for another beer, Dale noticed a pair of bags from a Centralia grocery next to the microwave. It was then nearly 8:00, at least two hours past French County’s suppertime. Jack might reasonably have assumed that Dale had already eaten, were his uniform not evidence to the contrary.

  He tossed Jack a softball about the hardest case he had ever solved and sidled up to the counter. The marbled red tips of two sirloin steaks protruded from the nearest bag. His stomach emitted a reverberant clamor. Jack ignored the thunder roll and said, “Thornberg Kinderling was right up there with anything I handled in L.A. I was really grateful for your help.” Dale got the picture. Here was another locked door. This one had declined to open by as much as a crack. History was not spoken here; the past had been nailed shut.

  They finished their beers and installed the last of the pictures. Over the next few hours, they spoke of a hundred things, but always within the boundaries Jack Sawyer had established. Dale was sure that his question about Jack’s parents had shortened the evening, but why should that be true? What was the guy hiding? And from whom was he hiding it? After their work was done, Jack thanked him warmly and walked him outside to his car, thereby cutting off any hope of a last-minute reprieve. Case closed, game over, zip up your fly, in the words of the immortal George Rathbun. While they stood in the fragrant darkness beneath the millions of stars arrayed above them, Jack sighed with pleasure and said, “I hope you know how grateful I am. Honestly, I’m sorry I have to go back to L.A. Would you look at how beautiful this is?”

  Driving back to French Landing, his the only headlights on the long stretch of Highway 93, Dale wondered if Jack’s parents had been involved in some aspect of the entertainment business embarrassing to their adult son, like pornography. Maybe Dad directed skin flicks, and Mom starred in them. The people who made dirty movies probably raked in the dough, especially if they kept it in the family. Before his odometer ticked off another tenth of a mile, the memory of the little Fairfield Porter turned Dale’s satisfaction to dust. No woman who earned her keep having on-camera sex with strangers would spend actual money on a painting like that.

  Let us enter Jack Sawyer’s kitchen. The morning’s Herald lies unfolded on the dining table; a black frying pan recently sprayed with Pam heats atop the circle of blue flames from the gas stove’s front left-hand burner. A tall, fit, distracted-looking man wearing an old USC sweatshirt, jeans, and Italian loafers the color of molasses is swirling a whisk around the interior of a stainless steel bowl containing a large number of raw eggs.

  Looking at him as he frowns at a vacant section of air well above the shiny bowl, we observe that the beautiful twelve-year-old boy last seen in a fourth-floor room of a deserted New Hampshire hotel has aged into a man whose good looks contribute only the smallest portion to what makes him interesting. For that Jack Sawyer is interesting declares itself instantly. Even when troubled to distraction by some private concern, some enigma, we might as well say in the face of that contemplative frown, Jack Sawyer cannot help but radiate a persuasive authority. Just by looking at him, you know that he is one of those persons to whom others turn when they feel stumped, threatened, or thwarted by circumstance. Intelligence, resolve, and dependability have shaped the cast of his features so deeply that their attractiveness is irrelevant to their meaning. This man never pauses to admire himself in mirrors—vanity plays no part in his character. It makes perfect sense that he should have been a rising star in the Los Angeles Police Department, that his file bulged with commendations, and that he had been selected for several FBI-sponsored programs and training courses designed to aid the progress of rising stars. (A number of Jack’s colleagues and superiors had privately concluded that he would become the police commissioner of a city like San Diego or Seattle around the time he turned fo
rty and, ten to fifteen years later, if all went well, step up to San Francisco or New York.)

  More strikingly, Jack’s age seems no more relevant than his attractiveness: he has the air of having passed through lifetimes before this one, of having gone places and seen things beyond the scope of most other people. No wonder Dale Gilbertson admires him; no wonder Dale yearns for Jack’s assistance. In his place, we would want it, too, but our luck would be no better than his. This man has retired, he is out of the game, sorry, damn shame and all that, but a man’s gotta whisk eggs when he’s gotta have omelettes, as John Wayne said to Dean Martin in Rio Bravo.

  “And as my momma told me,” Jack says out loud to himself, “she said, ‘Sonny boy,’ said she, ‘when the Duke spoke up, everdangbody lissened up, lessen he was a-grindin’ one of his numerous political axes,’ yes, she did, them were her same exack words, just as she said ’em to me.” A half second later, he adds, “On that fine morning in Beverly Hills,” and finally takes in what he is doing.

  What we have here is a spectacularly lonely man. Loneliness has been Jack Sawyer’s familiar for so long that he takes it for granted, but what you can’t fix eventually turns into wallpaper, all right? Plenty of things, such as cerebral palsy and Lou Gehrig’s disease, to name but two, are worse than loneliness. Loneliness is just part of the program, that’s all. Even Dale noticed this aspect of his friend’s character, and despite his many virtues, our chief of police cannot be described as a particularly pyschological human being.

  Jack glances at the clock above the stove and sees he has another forty-five minutes before he must drive to French Landing and pick up Henry Leyden at the end of his shift. That’s good; he has plenty of time, he’s keeping it together, the subtext to which is Everything is all right, and nothing’s wrong with me, thank you very much.

  When Jack woke up this morning, a small voice in his head announced I am a coppiceman. Like hell I am, he thought, and told the voice to leave him alone. The little voice could go to hell. He had given up on the coppiceman business, he had walked away from the homicide trade . . .

  . . . the lights of a carousel reflected on the bald head of a black man lying dead on the Santa Monica Pier . . .

  No. Don’t go there. Just . . . just don’t, that’s all.

  Jack should not have been in Santa Monica, anyhow. Santa Monica had its own coppicemen. As far as he knew, they were a swell bunch of guys, though perhaps not quite up to the standard set by that ace boy, whizbang, and youngest-ever lieutenant of LAPD’s Homicide Division, himself. The only reason the ace boy and whizbang had been on their turf in the first place was that he had just broken up with this extremely nice, or at least moderately nice, resident of Malibu, Ms. Brooke Greer, a screenwriter greatly esteemed within her genre, the action adventure–romantic comedy, also a person of remarkable wit, insight, and bodily charm, and as he sped homeward down the handsome stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway below the Malibu Canyon exit he yielded to an uncharacteristically edgy spell of gloom.

  A few seconds after swinging up the California Incline into Santa Monica, he saw the bright ring of the Ferris wheel revolving above the strings of lights and the lively crowd on the pier. A tawdry enchantment, or an enchanted tawdriness, spoke to him from the heart of this scene. On a whim, Jack parked his car and walked down to the array of brilliant lights glowing in the darkness. The last time he had visited the Santa Monica Pier, he had been an excited six-year-old boy pulling on Lily Cavanaugh Sawyer’s hand like a dog straining at a leash.

  What happened was accidental. It was too meaningless to be called coincidence. Coincidence brings together two previously unrelated elements of a larger story. Here nothing connected, and there was no larger story.

  He came to the pier’s gaudy entrance and noticed that, after all, the Ferris wheel was not revolving. A circle of stationary lights hung over empty gondolas. For a moment, the giant machine looked like an alien invader, cleverly disguised and biding its time until it could do the maximum amount of damage. Jack could almost hear it purring to itself. Right, he thought, an evil Ferris wheel—get a grip. You’re shaken up more than you want to admit. Then he looked back down at the scene before him, and finally took in that his fantasy of the pier had hidden a real-life evil rendered far too familiar by his profession. He had stumbled onto the initial stages of a homicide investigation.

  Some of the brilliant lights he had seen flashed not from the Ferris wheel but from the tops of Santa Monica patrol cars. Out on the pier, four uniforms were discouraging a crowd of civilians from breaching the circle of crime-scene tape around a brightly illuminated carousel. Jack told himself to leave it alone. He had no role here. Besides that, the carousel aroused some smoky, indistinct feeling, an entire set of unwelcome feelings, in him. The carousel was creepier than the stalled Ferris wheel. Carousels had always spooked him, hadn’t they? Painted midget horses frozen into place with their teeth bared and steel poles rammed through their guts—sadistic kitsch.

  Walk away, Jack told himself. Your girlfriend dumped you and you’re in a rotten mood.

  And as for carousels . . .

  The abrupt descent of a mental lead curtain ended the debate about carousels. Feeling as though pushed from within, Jack stepped onto the pier and began moving through the crowd. He was half conscious of taking the most unprofessional action of his career.

  When he had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, he ducked under the tape and flashed his badge at a babyfaced cop who tried to order him back. Somewhere nearby, a guitarist began playing a blues melody Jack could almost identify; the title swam to the surface of his mind, then dove out of sight. The infant cop gave him a puzzled look and walked away to consult one of the detectives standing over a long shape Jack did not quite feel like looking at just then. The music annoyed him. It annoyed him a lot. In fact, it bugged the hell out of him. His irritation was out of proportion to its cause, but what kind of idiot thought homicides needed a sound track?

  A painted horse reared, frozen in the garish light.

  Jack’s stomach tightened, and deep in his chest something fierce and insistent, something at all costs not to be named, flexed itself and threw out its arms. Or extended its wings. The terrible something wished to break free and make itself known. Briefly, Jack feared he would have to throw up. The passing of this sensation bought him a moment of uncomfortable clarity.

  Voluntarily, idly, he had walked into craziness, and now he was crazy. You could put it no other way. Marching toward him with an expression nicely combining disbelief and fury was a detective named Angelo Leone, before his expedient transfer to Santa Monica a colleague of Jack’s distinguished by his gross appetites, his capacity for violence and corruption, his contempt for all civilians regardless of color, race, creed, or social status, and, to be fair, his fearlessness and utter loyalty to all police officers who went with the program and did the same things he did, which meant anything they could get away with. Angelo Leone’s disdain for Jack Sawyer, who had not gone with the program, had equaled his resentment at the younger man’s success. In a few seconds, this brutal caveman would be in his face. Instead of trying to figure out how to explain himself to the caveman, he was obsessing about carousels and guitars, attending to the details of going crazy. He had no way of explaining himself. Explanation was impossible. The internal necessity that had pushed him into this position hummed on, but Jack could hardly speak to Angelo Leone of internal necessities. Nor could he offer a rational explanation to his captain, if Leone filed a complaint.

  Well, you see, it was like someone else was pulling my strings, like another person was doing the driving . . .

  The first words out of Angelo Leone’s fleshy mouth rescued him from disaster.

  —Don’t tell me you’re here for a reason, you ambitious little prick.

  A piratical career like Leone’s inevitably exposed the pirate to the danger of an official investigation. A strategic sidestep to a neighboring force offered little protecti
on from the covert archaeological digs police officials mounted into records and reputations when the press gave them no other choice. Every decade or two, do-gooders, whistle-blowers, whiners, snitches, pissed-off civilians, and cops too stupid to accept the time-honored program got together, rammed a cherry bomb up the press’s collective anus, and set off an orgy of bloodletting. Leone’s essential, guilt-inspired paranoia had instantly suggested to him that L.A. Homicide’s ace boy might be gilding his résumé.

  As Jack had known it would, his claim of having been pulled toward the scene like a fire horse to a fire magnified Leone’s suspicions.

  —Okay, you happened to walk into my investigation. Fine. Now listen to me. If I happen to hear your name in some connection I don’t like anytime during the next six months, make that ever, you’ll be pissing through a tube for the rest of your life. Now get the fuck out of here and let me do my job.

  —I’m gone, Angelo.

  Leone’s partner started to come forward across the gleaming pier. Leone grimaced and waved him back. Without intending to do so, without thinking about it, Jack let his eyes drift past the detective and down to the corpse in front of the carousel. Far more powerfully than it had the first time, the ferocious creature at the center of his chest flexed itself, unfurled, and extended its wings, its arms, its talons, whatever they were, and by means of a tremendous upward surge attempted to rip free of its moorings.

  The wings, the arms, the talons crushed Jack’s lungs. Hideous claws splayed through his stomach.