T. Parker: Summer Of Fear

"She came out of the house at about eleven-thirty. Got in her car and drove away."

"Jesus, Marty-then she saw what we saw."

Martin drank again, fumbled for a smoke. I lighted it for him. "She must have. She was in a hurry. She tossed her head back when she came through the gate-that way she always did-then walked straight to the car. She stood there beside for a second, getting out her keys. I don't want to believe Grace could kill her, but she was there. And she didn't report it."

"So were you, and you didn't."

"And so were you. Maybe you ought to tell me why."

So I told him. It paralleled Marty's story in a way that made me sound as if I was mocking him. When I explained myself, the whole thing with Amber seemed so puerile, so sentimental, so treacherous. I was suddenly ashamed of myself, of submitting to my own self-created temptations. For a moment, I saw us from the outside-Marty Parish and me-two former lovers of a beautiful woman, nurturing their little hurts, nursing along their little hopes, fueling the ancient torches, dragging around every lost moment of an idealized time so we could remember how good it felt to be heartbroken by Amber Mae. It was disgusting. In that moment, I hated myself.

"Maybe Amber picked us because she knew we'd miss her like this," said Marty.

"Maybe Amber was just a selfish cunt we should have steered clear of."

Marty nodded drunkenly. "Funny you'd mention that now that she's dead."

"What in hell is going on here, Marty? Someone move her."

"Cleaned the carpet and brought in a throw rug."

"Painted the walls."

"Cleaned the mirror."

"Closed the sliding door and the screen."

"Took her away."

In trash bags, I thought. "Made the bed."

"Gad, Russ-and she was all packed up to leave. What am I gonna do? I've got a marriage I'd like to save. I got a job I'd like to keep. I find my ex-wife dead and I can't say a word or the shit's gonna hit every fan there is. I'm not going to lose everything I've worked for because of Amber Mae. She took it all once already. I paid my dues. Christ, do I need a drink."

"Think I'll join you."

Marty ordered up a couple more doubles. I've known only one man who could drink as much as Martin Parish and still function. I saw Marty make a bet once at a party that he could drink a fifth of Black Label in one sitting, do a hundred push-ups, and not puke. He did all those things but still lost the bet, because I drank a bottle, did 150 push-ups, and held. I also went home that night, after Marty had fallen asleep, with the date that he had brought to the party-Amber Mae Wilson, of course. We were young and stupid then.

Now we're just older. "Marty, can you explain… uh… why you weren't fully clothed when I barged in on you?"

Marty drank more. "I still couldn't believe what I saw last night. It was like if I closed my eyes and got under those covers… then I heard someone coming up the stairs."

"It was like if you got under the covers, what?"

"That she'd be there."

"That's your answer?"

"That's it."

"You're a sick dog, Martin."

"Yeah, I know."

"Let's take a walk."

I paid up and we walked out onto the beach. I guided us south, toward the rocks. I picked my way around to a little cove that closed us off from the rest of the strand. When Marty was almost beside me, I drove my elbow into him as hard as I could, right below the sternum. He folded in half, head down, and I sent my knee into his forehead, hard. Then I grabbed him the hair, pulled him out to the water, and pushed him in. I got his hair again and leaned into his backbone with my knee. He was taking big gulps of air when I let him; the rest of the time he got ocean. "Truth time, Marty. You kill her?"

"No…"

"Come on, I'm a friend."

"No…"

So I jammed his face down again and gave him a good drink. For a while, he didn't even struggle. He blew bubbles. When I pulled him up, he was just starting to suck in a big breath. He swilled the air and I asked him again whether he killed her.

"No…"

Back under for some more quiet time. The water eased in, lifted us in unison, set us back down on the sand. I yanked up on his hair again. "Then what the fuck were you doing her house last night-and don't tell me because you had to see her."

"I had to see her-I swear to…"

I leaned harder on his back. "And you went back again tonight? For what, Marty? For what?"

"I couldn't figure out why… couldn't figure out why nobody called it in… and maybe…"

"Maybe what, Marty?"

"And maybe I didn't really see what I thought I did. I could hardly remember anything this morning. I was hoping maybe I was blackout drunk and didn't really see her"

"So then you got naked and wanted to get into her bed."

Martin Parish was groaning now, not a groan of physical pain but one of terrible, terrible inner torment. "I just needed… needed five minutes of what it used to feel like. I loved her. I don't know. It's always… worked. I don't know… see… I'd done it before."

"Gotten into her bed?"

"Only when she wasn't there."

"Oh, Christ."

The shore break rolled in harder now and knocked me off him. I stood, balanced myself, and dragged up Marty by his belt. We staggered out, across a few feet of beach, then he sagged down, coughing and breathing hard. I knelt in front of him and yanked him by his shirt collar right up to me, face-to- face.

"We've got five bashings, Marty. Did this guy paint up the Ellison and Fernandez places, too?"

Martin just shook his head. He was drunk enough to admit crawling naked into bed with a murdered woman who wasn't there. But he wasn't drunk enough to break procedure and leak to the press just exactly what their man had left for them at two-and maybe three-crime scenes. Marty's divisions were more profound than I had ever suspected.

"Maybe Amber just got up and walked away," he said, sobbing. In the moonlight, his face looked like a child's, like a slobbering infant who'd finally come to the end of a crying jag. "Maybe it was a makeup job. She knows all those Hollywood types. It was all a trick."

I shook him hard. "She's dead, Marty. But nobody knows that except you and me and Grace and whoever took that club to her. And nobody's going to know, unless whoever moved Amber put her somewhere we can find her."

Marty was nodding along dutifully now. I let go of him. He brought up his knees and arms and bowed his head against them. He was rocking back and forth a little. He was pathetic.

"We need to talk to Grace," he said. "We need Grace.

" We sure as hell do, I thought. "I'll find her."

"You should do that, Russ."

"I'll do it."

"Since she's your daughter."

"Right, since she's my daughter."

Grace's red Porsche was parked in my driveway when I came home, and Grace was leaning against it. A quiet alarm went off inside me. I hadn't seen her in almost a year-an occasional phone call was all she had offered. Even though the night was humid and warm, she stood bundled inside a parka with fur around the collar, her shoulders bunched, her head set down into the fur, her hands in the pockets.

Amber had claimed Grace from the start-seized her, appropriated her, removed her. From before the start, in fact: Amber was five months pregnant before she told me. I had first seen Grace when she was two weeks old, then not again until two years later. Amber had taken her to Paris. Amber had taken her to Rome. To New York, Rio, London, St. Barts, Kitts, and Thomas. Grace said her first words to me when she was four. She said, demurely offering her cheek for a kiss, "How nice to meet you, Russell." It was one of the strangest, strongest moments in my life, stooping to kiss that face so much like mine, turned in profile while her long-lashed brown eyes contemplate the sky with supreme control, supreme boredom. I believe that I felt a little part of my heart die in that moment. She referred to me as Russell, never once as Father or Dad or Pop ever since.