Wayfaring Stranger (Holland Family Saga 1)

“They’ll turn you into one of them. You’ll wake up one morning and look at your reflection in the mirror and wonder what happened to the little boy in his white First Communion suit. See you around, Buster Brown.”

I followed him into the street. The sunlight was cold and brittle, with a reminder of winter and the shortening of the days in the air. Leaves were scudding out of the alley next to Eddy Pearl’s pawnshop. The Mexican woman who ran the flower stall was gone. “Come back here,” I said.

“Not a chance,” he replied.

I went back into the office but couldn’t think my way through the exchange. Roy had made a cuckold of my best friend but had presented himself to me as a victim. He seemed genuinely concerned with my fate but remained firmly entrenched in the world of wealth and power that threatened to destroy Rosita in order to get to me. Last, and perhaps most tragically for him, he was brave but beset with guilt because his ambition may have cost a life.

I went into the courtyard and poured out the stale water in the vase of flowers. It was green in the sunlight and had a rancid smell when it struck the flagstones. I had never felt more alone and helpless, even at the Ardennes. I leaned against the wall with one hand. The stones were hard and gritty and cold against my palm. As the wind gusted across the rooftops, I heard a sound that was like the staccato popping of small-arms fire when first contact is made between two armies. But the series of reports was only an automobile backfiring on the street. I was almost positive about that.

I KNEW WHAT WAS coming next, in the way you know the next pitch is a slider when a left-handed pitcher mops the sweat off his brow and wipes the back of his hand on his pants and not his palm. Saturday morning I got a person-to-person call from Linda Gail. I could barely make out her words. “We’re having a terrible electrical storm here,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

“Barely. Where are you?”

“In Santa Monica. The sky is black. Lightning is striking the cliffs above the beach. I’ve never seen the sky this dark here.”

“What do you want, Linda Gail?”

“You’d better talk to Hershel. He’s acting crazy.”

“You’re just becoming aware of that?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d moralize on your own nickel. Why do you think I called you?”

“Roy Wiseheart was in my office yesterday and was probably more candid about you two than he should have been.”

“Roy came to you?”

“I’ve had to put Rosita in hiding. She threw a pot of scalding tomatoes and peppers in a police officer’s face. If you want to have a dalliance with Roy, that’s your business, Linda Gail. But stop dragging your problems into my life.”

“I didn’t call you because of me. I called because I’m worried about you. God, you make me angry. Sometimes I want to break my fists on your head.”

“Somebody sent Hershel a photograph?”

“Yes, exactly. Do you know who’s in it?”

“If we’re talking about the same photograph, I’ve already seen it. It’s a fake. Or at least part of it is.”

I could hear her breathing into the phone, even though thunder was booming in the background. “You’re talking about me in the nude?”

“Yes, I am.”

I expected her to say something vitriolic, to take on the mantle of outrage that she was extraordinarily good at. But there were facets to Linda Gail that sometimes surprised me. “I hate myself for this. It’s all my fault, Weldon. It’s not Roy’s or Hershel’s or yours. Do you know about Jack Valentine’s death?”

“I read he was killed in South Central Los Angeles.”

“He was killed after Roy told me someone should teach him a lesson.”

“That’s probably just rhetoric.”

There was a violent intrusion of static on the line. Then she said in an almost plaintive voice, “Weldon?”

“Yes?”

“The lightning is hitting the water. I’ve never seen it do that. The ocean looks like it’s full of black oil and electricity. There’s green vapor rising off the waves. It looks like the world is ending.”

“It’s an optical illusion.”

“Do you believe in karma?” she asked.