The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove (18 page)

Gabe asked. “Who?”

“I can't say,” Val said.

“Estelle Boyet,” Jenny said as she came up to get the dessert order.

“Damn,” Val said. “I wasn't the one who told you,” she said to Theo.

“Well, she was talking about it over breakfast with that Catfish guy,” Jenny added.

“No dessert,” Val snapped at Jenny.

“I'll bring the check.”

“So Estelle has seen it?” Theo asked.

“No, she says she's heard it. She's not the type to propagate a hoax, but I wouldn't put it past Molly Michon. Perhaps that's where the rumor started. I can ask Estelle.”

“Do that,” Theo said. “But it's not a hoax. My car is smashed. That's evidence. I'm going to Molly's tonight and wait for her. The door was unlocked when I checked earlier and I can't go home.”

“You think it's that dangerous?” Val asked.

“I know it is.” Theo stood and started to pull some bills from his pocket. Gabe waved him off. Theo said, “Doctor, can you give Gabe a ride?”

“Sure, but…”

“Thanks,” Theo said. “I'll call you, Gabe. Thanks for letting me join you, Doctor. I thought you'd want to know about Bess. I'm afraid I've ruined your date.”

I'll say, Val thought as she watched Theo leave the restaurant. A sense of alert exhaustion washed over her like an espresso fog bank.

“He just quit smoking pot,” Gabe said. “He's feeling the stress.”

“He has a right to. You don't believe any of that stuff about a monster, do you?”

“I have some theories.”

“Would you like to come up to the house and explain them over a bottle of wine?”

“Really? I mean, sure, that would be nice.”

“Good,” Val said. “I think I need to get hammered and I'd like your company.” Had she used the term “hammered” since college? She didn't think so.

“I'll get the check,” Gabe said.

“Of course you will.”

“I hope you don't mind having a dog in your car,” Gabe said.

I'm not slumming, she thought. I've moved to the slums.

Theo

The walls of Molly's trailer were plastered with movie posters. He stood in the middle of the living room among the scattered videotapes, magazines, and junk mail and slowly turned. It was her, Molly. She hadn't been lying all this time. Most of the posters were in foreign languages, but every one featured a younger Molly in various states of undress, holding weapons or fighting off bad guys, her hair flying in the wind, a nuked-out city or a desert littered with human skulls and burned-out cars in the background.

The adolescent male part of Theo, the part that every man tries to bury but carries to his grave, reared up. She was a movie star. A hot movie star! And he knew her, had in fact put handcuffs on her. If there was only a locker room, a street corner, or a second-period study hall where he could brag about it to his friends. But he didn't really have any friends, except for Gabe maybe, and Gabe was a grown-up. The prurient moment passed and Theo felt guilty about the way he had treated Molly: patronizing her and condescending to her; the way many people treated him when he tried to be something besides a pothead and puppet.

He kneeled down to a bookshelf filled with videotapes, found one labeled
KENDRA: WARRIOR BABE OF THE OUT
LAND (ENGLISH)
, and slipped it into the VCR and turned on the television. Then he turned off the lights, laid his guns on the coffee table, and lay down on Molly's couch to wait. He watched as the Crazy Lady of Pine Cove battled mutants and Sand Pirates for half an hour before he drifted off to sleep. His mind needed a deeper escape from his problems than the movie could provide.

“Hi, Theo.”

He came awake startled. The movie was still casting a flickering light over the room, so he couldn't have been sleeping that long. She stood in the doorway, half in shadow, looking very much like the woman on the television screen. She held an assault rifle at her side.

“Molly, I've been waiting for you.”

“How'd you like it?” She nodded toward the television.

“Loved it. I never realized. I was just so tired…”

Molly nodded. “I won't be long, I just came to get some clean clothes. You're welcome to stay here.”

Theo didn't know what to do. It didn't seem like the time to grab one of the pistols off the table. He felt more embarrassed than threatened.

“Thanks,” he said.

“He's the last one, Theo. After him there aren't any more of his kind. His time has passed. I think that's what we have in common. You don't know what it is to be a has-been, do you?”

“I think I'm what they call a never-was.”

“That's easier. At least you're always looking up the ladder, not down. Coming down is scarier.”

“How? Why? What is he?”

“I'm not sure, a dragon maybe. Who knows?” She leaned back against the doorway and sighed. “But I can kinda tell what he's thinking. I guess it's because I'm nuts. Who would have thought that would come in handy, huh?”

“Don't say that about yourself. You're saner than I am.”

Molly laughed, and Theo could see her movie-star teeth shine in the light of the television. “You're a neurotic, Theo. A neurotic is someone who thinks something is wrong with him, but everyone else thinks he is normal; a psychotic thinks something's wrong with her. Take a poll of the locals, I think I'd come out in the latter category, don't you?”

“Molly, this is really dangerous stuff you're messing with.”

“He won't hurt me.”

“It's not just that. You could go to jail just for having that machine gun, Molly. People are getting killed, aren't they?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“That's what happened to Joseph Leander, and the guys working the drug lab, right? Your pal ate them?”

“They were going to hurt you, and Steve was hungry. Seemed like great timing to me.”

“Molly, that's murder!”

“Theo! I'm nuts. What are they going to do to me?”

Theo shrugged his shoulders and sat back on the couch. “I don't know what to do.”

“You're not in a position to do anything right now. Get some rest.”

Theo cradled his head in his hands. His cell phone, still in the pocket of his flannel shirt, began ringing. “I could sure use a hit right now.”

“There's some Smurfs of Sanity in the cupboard over the sink—neuroleptics Dr. Val gave me, antipsychotics—they've done wonders for me.”

“Obviously.”

“Your phone is ringing.”

Theo pulled out the phone, flipped it open, hit the answer button and watched as the incoming number ap
peared on the display. It was Sheriff Burton's cell phone number. Theo hit disconnect.

“I'm fucked,” Theo said.

Molly picked up Theo's .357 Magnum from the table, held it on Theo, then picked up Joseph Leander's automatic. “I'll give these back before I go. I'm going to get some clean clothes and some girlie things out of my bedroom. You be okay here?”

“Yeah, sure.” His head was still hung. He spoke into his lap.

“You're bumming me out, Theo.”

“Sorry.”

Molly was gone from the room for only five minutes, in which time Theo tried to get a handle on what had happened. Molly returned with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She was wearing the Kendra costume, complete with thigh-high boots. Even in the dim light from the television, Theo could see a ragged scar over her breast. She caught him looking.

“Ended my career,” she said. “I suppose now they could fix it, but it's a little late.”

“I'm sorry,” Theo said. “I think you look beautiful.”

She smiled and shifted both of the pistols to one hand. She'd left the assault rifle by the door and Theo hadn't even noticed. “You ever feel special, Theo?”

“Special?”

“Not like you're better than everyone else, just that you're different in a good way, like it makes a difference that you're on the planet? You ever feel that way?”

“I don't know. No, not really.”

“I had that for a while. Even though they were cheesy B movies and even though I had to do some humiliating things to get into them, I felt special, Theo. Then it went away. Well, now I feel that way again. That's why.”

“Why what?”

“You asked me why before. That's why I'm going back to Steve.”

“Steve? You call him Steve?”

“He looked like a Steve,” Molly said. “I have to go. I'll leave your guns in the bed of that red truck you stole. Don't try to follow, okay?”

Theo nodded. “Molly, don't let it kill anybody else. Promise me that.”

“Promise to leave us alone?”

“I can't do that.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself.” She grabbed the assault rifle, kicked open the door, and stepped out.

Theo heard her go down the steps, pause, then come back up. She popped her head in the door. “I'm sorry you never felt special, Theo,” she said.

Theo forced a smile. “Thanks, Molly.”

Gabe

Gabe stood in the foyer of Valerie Riordan's home, looking at his hiking boots, then the white carpet, then his boots again. Val had gone into the kitchen to get some wine. Skinner was wandering around outside.

Gabe sat down on the marble floor, unlaced his boots, then slipped them off. He'd once been into a level-nine clean room at a biotech facility in San Jose, a place where the air was scrubbed and filtered down to the micron and you had to wear a plastic bunny suit with its own air umbilical to avoid contaminating the specimens. Strangely, he'd had a similar feeling to the one he was feeling now, which was: I am the harbinger of filth. Thank God Theo had made him shower and change before his date.

Val came into the sunken living room carrying a tray
with a bottle of wine and two glasses. She looked up at Gabe, who was standing at the edge of the stairs as if ready to wade into molten lava.

“Well, come on in and have a seat,” Val said.

Gabe took a tentative step. “Nice place,” he said.

“Thanks, I still have a lot to do on it. I suppose I should just hire a decorator and have done with it, but I like finding pieces myself.”

“Right,” Gabe said, taking another step. You could play handball in this room if you didn't mind destroying a lot of antiques.

“It's a cabernet from Wild Horse Vineyard over the hill. I hope you like it.” Val poured the wine into stemmed bubble glasses. She took hers and sat down on the velvet couch, then raised her eyebrows as if to say, “Well?”

Gabe joined her at the other end of the couch, then took a tentative sip of the wine. “It's nice.”

“For a local cheapie,” Val said.

An awkward silence passed between them. Val made a show of tasting the wine again, then said, “You don't really believe this stuff about a sea monster, do you, Gabe?”

Gabe was relieved. She wanted to talk about work. He'd been afraid that she would want to talk about something else—anything else—and he didn't really know how. “Well, there are the tracks, which look very authentic, so if they are fake, whoever did them studied fossil tracks and replicated them perfectly. Then there's the timing of the rat migration, plus Theo and your patient. Estelle, was it?”

Val set down her wine. “Gabe, I know you're a scientist, and a discovery like this could make you rich and famous, but I just don't believe there's a dinosaur in town.”

“Rich and famous? I hadn't thought about it. I guess there would be some recognition, wouldn't there?”

“Look, Gabe, you deal in hard facts, but every day I deal with the delusions and constructions of people's minds. They are just tracks on the ground, probably like that Bigfoot hoax in Washington a few years ago. Theo is a chronic drug user, and Estelle and her boyfriend Catfish are artist types. They all have overactive imaginations.”

Gabe was put off by her judgment of Theo and the others. He thought for a second, then said, “As a biologist, I have a theory about imagination. I think it's pretty obvious that fear—fear of loud noises, fear of heights, the capacity to learn fear—is something that we've adapted over the years as a survival mechanism, and so is imagination. Everyone thinks that it was the big strong caveman who got the girl, and for the most part, that may have been true, but physical strength doesn't explain how our species created civilization. I think there was always some scrawny dreamer sitting at the edge of the firelight, who had the ability to imagine dangers, to look into the future in his imagination and see possibilities, and therefore survived to pass his genes on to the next generation. When the big ape men ended up running off the cliff or getting killed while trying to beat a mastodon into submission with a stick, the dreamer was standing back thinking, ‘Hey, that might work, but you need to run the mastodon off the cliff.' And, then he'd mate with the women left over after the go-getters got killed.”

“So nerds rule,” Val said with a smile. “But if fear and imagination make you more highly evolved, then someone with paranoid delusions would be ruling the world.” Val was getting into the theory of it now. How strange to talk to a man who talked about ideas, not property and personal agendas. Val liked it. A lot.

Gabe said, “Well, we didn't miss that by far with Hitler, did we? Evolution takes some missteps sometimes.
Big teeth worked pretty well for a while, then they got too big. Mastodons' tusks got so large they would snap the animal's neck. And you've probably noticed that there are no saber-toothed cats around anymore.”

“Okay, I'll buy that imagination is an evolutionary leap. But what about depression?” Talking about mental conditions, she couldn't help thinking about what she'd done to her patients. Her crimes circled in her mind, trying to get out. “Psychiatry is looking more and more at mental conditions from a physical point of view, so that fits. That's why we're treating depression with drugs like Prozac. But what evolutionary purpose is there for depression?”

“I've been thinking about that since you mentioned it at dinner,” Gabe said. He drained his wineglass and moved closer to her on the couch, as if by being closer, she would share in his excitement. He was in his element now. “A lot of animals besides humans get depressed. Higher mammals like dolphins and whales can die from it, but even rats seem to get the Blues. I can't figure out what purpose it serves. But in humans it might be like nearsightedness: civilization has protected a biological weakness that would have been weeded out by natural dangers or predators.”

“Predators? How?”

“I don't know. Depression might slow the prey down, make it react less quickly to danger. Who knows?”

“So a predator might actually evolve that preyed on depressed animals?” Right and it's me, Val thought. If I haven't been preying on depressed people, what have I been doing? She suddenly felt ashamed of her home, of the pure materialism of it. Here was an incredibly bright man who was concerned with the pure pursuit of knowledge, and she had sold her integrity for some antiques and a Mercedes.

Gabe poured himself another glass of wine and sat
back now, thinking as he spoke. “Interesting idea. I suppose there could be some sort of chemical or behavioral stimulus that would trigger preying on the depressed. Low serotonin levels tend to raise libido, right? At least temporarily?”

“Yes,” Val said. That's why the entire town has turned into horndogs, she thought.

“Therefore,” Gabe continued, “you'd have more animals mating and passing on the depression gene. Nature tends to evolve mechanisms to remain in balance. A predator or a disease would naturally evolve to keep the depressed population down. Interesting, I've been feeling especially horny lately, I wonder if I'm depressed.” Gabe's eyes snapped open wide and he looked at Val with the full-blown terror of what he had just said. He gulped his wine, then said, “I'm sorry, I…”