The Woman Who Stopped Traffic (8 page)

CHAPTER 10

The glade was peculiarly dense around Vogel’s un-gated entranceway. Pine, maple and scrub oak fought for sky. The canopy of the driveway almost totally shut out light. Only after a hundred yards or so did it open out, into bright meadowland. The sun was beginning to burn through the marine layer above, gently illuminating the yellow-white asters and mauve lupins dotted about. At the far end, trees pincered in around a group of wooden buildings. Beyond winked ocean.

“Well, this is where it happens. The annual tech barons’ Woodstock-by-the-sea,” Silverman said. “He must have a hundred acres.
Un
believable.”

“What’s that?” Natalie said, looking to the left.

Set back from the driveway was a complicated metal structure glinting unevenly. It looked like a Jean Tinguely sculpture – only, the size of a small house. Metal wheels whirred on different axes. Hammer levers rose and fell uncertainly. It creaked and groaned and moaned at its task. They pulled over and got out. A plaque read:

          The Clock of the Eternal

                                      NOW!

                                      July 29
th
, 1967.

“Interesting,” Ben said.

Turning back to the meadow, Natalie saw something move in the trees opposite. “And what’s
that
?” she said.

“What?” he said, shielding his eyes from the brightening sun with a hand. 

“
Shh
,” Natalie said. For a moment, there was only insect drone. Then she whispered: “Look. Over in that oak, the large one: the lowest branch, extending horizontally,” and she guided his vision down her outstretched arm to a pale golden shape straddling the limb in question.

“Must be another sculpture,” he murmured.

But she knew. She could sense its watchful, feline presence. Suddenly its eyes blinked frostily.

“Holy shit! That’s a
lion
over there!” Ben raised his forearm protectively.

She eased his wrist aside. “It’s OK. There’s a fence.”

There was a set of horizontal silvery strands just visible in the strengthening light.

“And that fence is supposed to stop a three hundred pound lion?” he said.

“It’s likely electrified. And it’s a lioness, look: no mane. The lion is over there.”

“Fuck!” Ben sucked in air. Not fifty yards from them a five-hundred-pound male had broken cover and was standing equally still, its eyes quietly and intently upon them, its enormous mane flattened here and there by the ocean breeze.

Natalie: “I read an article in last Sunday’s
Times
about the growing trend for these exotic pets. You know, rap musicians and basketball stars looking to bring a bit of the Serengeti to their back yards.”

“Yeah well,” Ben swallowed hard. “The only guy I heard of who kept zoo animals on his property was Michael Jackson. And we all know what happened to him.”

A purring rumble came their way – the kind the reptilian brain is designed to focus its fullest attention on. Ben hurried her round to the passenger side of the Porsche: “get in,” he urged.

“I’m sure glad this ain’t an open top now,” she laughed uneasily.

“No kidding.”

Still wary of triggering a predatory response in the lion – even encased in the Porsche, they moved slowly over to the huddle of low buildings. They leaned in to the raked windshield to take in the roof structure of the crescent-shaped central building. Beams thrust out of the ground like some giant, hand-held fan. Or perhaps the display of a male peacock, Natalie decided: the copper flashings had turned an appropriate shade of green. The view of the ocean from inside had to be stunning. Around it were other, smaller structures fashioned from natural materials and separated by mature trees.

Warily, they got out of the car once more. They could hear the boom-and-hiss of surf. The air was balsam fresh. There was another smell that Natalie couldn’t put her finger on.

A young woman with frizzy blond hair appeared out of nowhere in khaki shorts and a tight halter-top. She had a tiny frame and enormous, surgically enhanced breasts. Her eyes were like saucers.

“Hi!” she squeaked. “I’m Mysty
– with two ‘y’s!”

“I’m Ben Silverman, two ‘n’s. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

“I’m Mister Vogel’s personal assistant,” Mysty said for Natalie’s benefit. On cue, a bear-like figure rounded the corner of the house. Jon Vogel was wearing only a lime-green Speedo. Natalie didn’t know whether it was a good thing or not that his belly hung down to almost cover the front, giving him the appearance of going naked.

“Jon, this is Natalie Chevalier
–”

“Oh yeay! Oh yeay!” he rang out like a town crier. “All hail the visiting princess!” and he gave a wildly exaggerated bow, fingers twirling.

“I think they’re stoned,” Ben said in a low voice.

“You don’t say.”

“Well welcome to New Earth, Natalie,” Vogel said with disarming sincerity.

“Thank you.”

“We were admiring your big game,” Ben said. “The lions –”

“Life
is
a big game!” Vogel exploded with kinetic energy, “the
divine
game!” He seemed to inhabit some other place where color, contrast and volume were turned to MAX.

“ ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players’!” he cried out.

Ben: “Shakespeare.”

“
As You Like It
,” Vogel laughed heartily. He led them up a path away from the house, into a canyon-like area previously hidden from view. The subject of Malovich’s demise soon came up, briefly tranquilizing him: “I can’t believe Yuri’s a goner,” he said. “He was a good kid: someone who’d always do the right thing. Shit, it feels like only yesterday Wiz and I recruited him from Stanford,” and he gripped the sides of a ladder that rose vertically into a tree-house twenty feet above. “Come up to my office.”

Vogel’s sagging rear vanished up the ladder with the agility of a twenty six year old: an impressive, if not exactly pretty, sight. Next Mysty’s perfectly rounded cheeks bounced up the rungs, trying to fight their way out of her safari shorts.

Silverman turned to Natalie. “After you?”

“No, please,” she rolled her eyes. “After
you
.”

“D’you guys wanna drink?” Mysty asked. “Coffee? Beer? Some absinthe? A little pot perhaps?”

“I’m good,” Natalie said.

Ben: “Maybe some bottled water.”

The tree house had window openings so large it was more a case of four poles supporting a vine-thatched roof. A bird darted straight through. On Vogel’s desk stood twin iMac screens the size of large solar panels. One showed stock market updates. Stock and index tickers flew across, flashing green and red as they went. Vogel stood in front, his face crossed with incomprehension at this summary of the world.

“What’s that smell?” Natalie asked, noticing the foreign scent again. Food?
Carrion?

“
Yeeahhhssss
...” Vogel groaned. An inset frame of the screen featured a talking head on CNN Financial News taking very seriously some issue or other. Vogel’s face reddened, seeming to bubble and subside. Finally he gestured at the screen as though giving it one last chance, before flicking over to a screen saver. Lurid-colored fish glugged underwater...

“That’s better,” he sighed. He turned to his iPlayer and put on some sort of surfadelic music involving reedy organs, jazz flutes and rumbling bass lines.

“OK,” he collapsed onto a beanbag. “I am he / as you are he / as you are me /
and we are all together
…” His pupils were massively dilated. “
I am the Walrus
.

“Which reminds me, has anyone seen George’s guitar?”

He turned to Mysty. “They haven’t had it up by the campfire again, have they? Oh Chr
isst
!” And he clambered back down the ladder with amazing alacrity.

“Mister Vogel just bought George Harrison’s first acoustic guitar at auction in London,” Mysty explained to Natalie and Ben. “Unfortunately, the DV8 people have been using it to sing songs round the campfire with. Here’s your water,” and she handed Ben a moist-cool bottle.

– “Guys!” Vogel’s voice could be heard echoing round the back bowl of the canyon, along with the noise of him crashing through undergrowth;
“guys”
–

“What’s DV8?” Natalie asked Mysty.

“Oh, it’s a group of students attempting a self-sufficiency program up the canyon. Mister Vogel is trying to perfect off-grid living. This rotation has sixty-two days to go. Ends on the summer solstice.
Exciting
!” and her eyes spiralled out at them again.

They made very small talk till Vogel eventually returned, guitar over one shoulder and a censer swinging from the other hand, looping smoke behind him. “Hey,” he said, squinting up into the uncertain sun. “They’re chanting 108
Trayambakams
up there if anyone’s interested. Natalie! Why don’t you go see? Leave the nonsense of business to Spiderman and I. That’s what I would do, if I were –
me
.” His eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of his words. “Unfortunately my individual ‘I’ is still separate from the oneness that is me – but don’t let that stop
you
!” The facial trauma was returning. “Well at least my witness-consciousness should be happy with the distinction. Then again,
what’s witnessing my witness-consciousness
?”

“D’you know, I may just take you up on that – the offer of taking a look round,” Natalie called out to Vogel, before turning to Ben: “I’m going to take a walk on the beach. Come find me when you’re done.”

She made her way among the trees, pine needles crunching underfoot. By any standards, this was an extraordinary piece of property. The sound of crashing surf came from a neighboring bay; Vogel’s was perfectly calm and protected.

She pulled out her phone. The signal was in-and-out, but she managed to access email. There were reassuring messages from Melinda, Stacey, other friends and – mercifully – Ray Ott. She’d emailed them all about her fake Clamor profile earlier that day. Brie DuBois, the raven-haired reporter from the Friday IPO presentation, had posted an article about Malovich’s death in the
Trumpington Bugle
, stating the cause as ‘unknown’ – “although Sunnyvale Police Department’s veteran detective Bill Pulver, who handled numerous homicide cases for the SFPD before reassigning to the Valley, leads the investigation…”

There was also an email from Nguyen:

    From: [email protected]

                  To: [email protected]

    Date: Tuesday, 11:38

Subject: meeting just now

Natalie,

Sincere apologies for my behavior at our meeting just now. Frayed nerves I’m afraid. What a day.

In any case, we really need a security professional now. Still hoping you’ll accept. Wisnold approved the $250K fee. You know the challenges we face. Would you like to propose what you could do for that and I’ll get it signed off?

Humbly,

Tom.

She made her way across the damp sand to a far headland lined with cypress trees. There, she found a rocky ledge to sit. Water sucked and gurgled among the rock pools. The sea was limpid and glassy, glistening through the lingering remnants of fog. From somewhere, a seal croaked. Reluctantly she returned to the matter at hand:

What to do?

Certainly she could return to the Bahamas. Her hacked profile and the Malovich murder were reasons enough to insist on not going back to this madness. But what about Detective Pulver’s admonition? And Silverman? The jury was still out on Ben, but she was getting to know the guy well enough to trust him at least. To like him even… in a professional capacity. But she would be working for Tom, and Nguyen didn’t seem to know
what
he wanted from her. Or would that be to her advantage? She bit down on her lower lip.

The truth was that yoga in the Bahamas hadn’t really solved anything. She’d sampled it all.
She’d even done a twelve-day silent meditation. Twelve long days, cross-legged! Sure, some of it had helped. But no, she’d not found God. God had eluded her. Or had
she
been the avoidant one? Had she somehow missed her calling, someplace along the way? Most of the permanent residents of the yoga center seemed to be in denial about something or other.

She inhaled deeply, the smell of kelp filling her nostrils.

For the reality was that her last relationship and the departure from her old job had dealt a massive blow to her self-esteem. Her soul had somehow retreated inside, away from the world. But this introspection – perhaps healthy at first, now seemed to be feeding off itself.