"It does tie in with anotherfact," I said, thinking aloud. "The girl he went to visit at the SurfHouse had the same name before she was married. He said the girl resembled hisdaughter. I think she is his daughter. Did he ever talk about her?"

"Never."

"Or bring her here?"

"No. If she's his daughter, hewouldn't bring her here." She reached for the empty bottle she had kickedover, set it on its base, and slumped back onto the settee, as if morallyexhausted by the effort.

"How long did Begley, or McGee, livehere with you?"

"A couple of weeks is all. We weregoing to be married. It's lonely living here without a man."

"I can imagine."

She drew a little life from the sympathyin my voice: "They just don't stay with me. I try to make things nice forthem, but they don't stay. I should have stuck with my first husband." Hereyes were far away and long ago. "He treated me like a queen but I wasyoung and foolish. I didn't know any better than to leave him."

We listened to the water under the house.

"Do you think Chuck went away with this girl youcall his daughter?"

"I doubt it," I said. "How did he leavehere, Mrs. Gerhardi? By car?"

"He wouldn't let me drive him. Hesaid he was going up to the corner and catch the L.A. bus. It stops at the cornerif you signal it. He walked up the road with his suitcase and out ofsight." She sounded both regretful and relieved.

"About what time?"

"Around three o'clock."

"Did he have any money?"

"He must have had some for the busfare. He couldn't have had much. I've been giving him a little money, but hewould only take what he needed from me, and then it always had to be a loan.Which he said he would pay back when he got his book of experiences on themarket. But I don't care if he never pays me back. He was nice to havearound."

"Really?"

"Really he was. Chuck is a smart man.I don't care what he's done in the course of his life. A man can change for thebetter. He never gave me a bad time once." She made a further breakthroughinto candor: "I was the one who gave him the bad times. I have a drinkingproblem. He only drank with me to be sociable. He didn't want me to drinkalone." She blinked her gin-colored eyes. "Would you like adrink?"

"No thanks. I have to be on myway." I got up and stood over her. "You're sure he didn't tell youwhere he was going?"

"Los Angeles is all I know. Hepromised I'd hear from him but I don't expect it. It's over."

"If he should write or phone will youlet me know?"

She nodded. I gave her my card, and toldher where I was staying. When I went out, the fog had moved inland as far asthe highway.

chapter 8

I stopped at the motel again on my way tothe Bradshaw house. The keyboy told me that Alex was still out. I wasn'tsurprised when I found his red Porsche parked under the Bradshaws' hedge besidethe road.

The moon was rising behind the trees. Ilet my thoughts rise with it, imagining that Alex had got together with hisbride and they were snug in the gatehouse, talking out their troubles. Thesound of the girl's crying wiped out the hopeful image. Her voice was loud andterrible, almost inhuman. Its compulsive rhythms rose and fell like theululations of a hurt cat.

The door of the gatehouse was slightlyajar. Light spilled around its edges, as if extruded by the pressure of thenoise inside. I pushed it open.

"Get out of here," Alex said.

They were on a studio bed in the tinysitting room. He had his arms around her, but the scene was not domestic. Sheseemed to be fighting him, trying to struggle out of his embrace. It was morelike a scene in a closed ward where psychiatric nurses will hold their violentpatients, sometimes for hours on end, rather than strap them in canvas jackets.

Her blouse was torn, so that one of herbreasts was almost naked. She twisted her unkempt head around and let me seeher face. It was gray and stunned, and it hardly changed expression when shescreamed at me:

"Get out!"

"I think I better stick around," I said toboth of them.

I closed the door and crossed the room.The rhythm of her crying was running down. It wasn't really crying. Her eyeswere dry and fixed in her gray flesh. She hid them against her husband's body.

His face was shining white.

"What happened, Alex?"

"I don't really know. I was waitingfor her when she got home a few minutes ago. I couldn't get much sense out ofher. She's awfully upset about something."

"She's in shock," I said,thinking that he was close to it himself. "Was she in an accident?"

"Something like that."

His voice trailed off in a mumble. Hislook was inward, as if he was groping for the strength to handle this newproblem.

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009