Chapter

24

As I reached up to touch Sara’s hair blowing in the breeze, she turned and leaned down. She placed her cheek against mine and laid her arm across my chest. As her fingers lightly touched my skin, she whispered in my ear, “No wipe out. I won the bet.”

I slowly turned her face to mine. “Want to double your winnings?”

“Hmm. How?” she said. The eyes unmistakably honest, the smile unmistakably naughty. The answer was unmistakably primal, even for a deserted beach.

Sporting a suntan in the right places and sunburn in some of the wrong places, we walked the beach later and watched the sun fade to an ochre ball behind the bank of smog that had stayed out to sea. Even though the surf was calm and the beach was bathed in the warm glow of the day’s end, I couldn’t help flashing on the icy nightmare. I broke into a run. “Bet I can beat you to the pier.”

“Thought you weren’t a betting man,” she said as she took me on.

It was only a hundred-yard run, but I was feeling the power and strength of a marathoner. I veered to the left and picked up the pace, letting my feet break the surf’s edge as its cooling wash drifted across the sand. I was in control. The nightmare was out to sea, behind me. I owned this beach. I owned Charles. That is what I knew I had to keep telling myself if I was going to win the battle and the war.

“Jesus...” Sara said, as she came into the finish behind me, “glad I didn’t put any money on that one. Recreational or pro?” We both leaned up against the pylons, laughing and heaving to catch our breath.

I looked back at the smog bank keeping its distance off shore. I smiled and took her gently by the hand. “I just turned pro. Hungry?”

We bought a bucket of shrimp and sat eating on the end of the pier watching the sun disappear. Below, the sandpipers scavenged the shoreline. “God’s little caretakers,” I casually said.

“You believe in him?” she queried.

“What, God? I don’t know. I think about it a lot. You?”

“Can’t be in the business of bringing parents and children together without believing in a God,” she said. “I’ve had a lot of successes through knowing and using my sources effectively. But I’ve had even more success through dumb luck, chance and being at the right place at the right time. God’s probably had something to do with that. That’s what my mother would say, anyway.”

“You’re never mentioned her before.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“Is she alive?”

“Oh, yes,” she said with a grin.  “Alive, well, and rainin’ hell.”

“That’s good?” I said with a sense of caution.

“Only thing that’s kept her alive. She had me when she was forty-five, so you can imagine how ornery she has to be now. I love her though. She took on one hell of a chore when she had me that late in life...gave me lots of love and managed to put me through graduate school with not two, but three jobs.”

“She was alone?”

She shrugged with a tinge of embarrassment. “I was an accident just waiting to happen. Mom was a career woman who waited till it was almost too late, then panicked. He was a diplomat from Europe, she told me. Wife, kids the whole number...including the denial I was his.” She looked up at the first star beginning to appear. “Yeah...I believe in God.”

We sat there, holding each other’s hand, watching the world change from day to night, light to dark. We didn’t speak for a long time. I watched the moon’s gradual reflection appear on the water. She studied the stars. The smile on her face said she was at peace with her universe, her God, herself. I looked back at the water. “Charles,” I whispered to myself, “hold on...hold on.”

The next morning, I made Mathews my first call. His office said he wasn’t going to be in till the next day. That was strange, I thought. Sara led me to believe he was coming back last night. I humored myself; maybe he was making it with Sobel. She was probably a good type for him, and a successful doctor could definitely be profitable for her. He was...then it hit me. Shit, he wasn’t a doctor to her. At first I did a double take on myself, but then I realized I was serious. Dead serious. I was disturbed that he might be...might be still playing out Charles Randall for her. What kind of impression would he be giving her? What kind of personality...what kind of person would he making Charles Randall out to be? Not that I cared whether she liked Mathews or not, it was just...I didn’t want anyone messing...I didn’t want Mathews messing with what was so paper thin, so fragile right now. If he were impersonating me...using my life to get to Charlie, well...that just wouldn’t do. I’d have to speak to him about that. Speak to him right away.

I picked up the phone and dialed the Essex House in New York. He had checked out earlier. That meant he was on his way back. I phoned his office again and told the “temp” he had on that I needed an appointment tomorrow...first thing. She said his first appointment was at 10 and that he was booked through the day because he had been out of town. “Leave a message at his home for when he gets in,” I said. Tell him Charlie and Charles want to see him at 9:00 AM sharp.”

“Dr. Mathews only sees one patient at a time, sir.”

    “Just tell him…please.”

For the rest of that day I was heading north of Los Angeles, somewhere along the Malibu coastline, as I pushed the Harley to 80. The biting ocean air kept reminding me I was playing into his hand, that being clever with the Charles and Charlie appointment was a mistake. “Dumb!” I yelled out for the air to swallow. “He’ll have a field day. I should have never mentioned Charlie’s name, I should...” My mouth was made to shut, spit and gag very quickly. A bug had sacrificed his life to shut me up. I took the hint.

I slowed down. Between the bug and the motorists I’d passed, I realized I’d let the speed get away with me. Couldn’t blame myself, though. I’d learned that a motorcycle—bike—was a lot of fun and made it easy to forget speed limits. It was also a target for unsavory motorists who would prefer cyclists be confined to old “Hell’s Angels” movies. Hardly a day had gone by when someone hadn’t tried to force me into an accident.

      Maybe it was the bike’s perfect condition, or its obvious classic value that pushed some people’s buttons. Or, maybe it was just me...maybe I didn’t look the part. Maybe I looked like I could be a fake, like the “Mulholland Drive” customers Finch had referred to at the dealership. Maybe I didn’t belong on a bike. Maybe I was a fake too. God, I thought, my mind is flailing me with a mean stick. Why can’t I let it settle? Why was I thinking these things? Maybe it was just Charlie trying to get back in.

       I looked to my left, out over the water. It was a beautiful day. There weren’t any clouds. No waves. Just the calm Pacific. No place for hiding. No place for Charlie’s demons. They were his demons, you know. I was convinced.

So, I found myself slowing down even further, pulling into the slow lane and calmly, respectfully nursing the bike along like one of those guys who “putt putts” his historic Model “A” Ford on a Sunday afternoon.

Up ahead, my eyes drifted toward a roadside signpost. “The Cove →” That’s all it said. “The Cove →”. As the inconspicuous sign passed to my right, I remembered speeding past this area many times in the previous months while taking my spins up the Pacific Coast Highway. I probably never noticed traveling at 70 or 80 mph, but today the sign caught my eye. Today it made me curious.

I made a cautious U-turn, knowing chances were good there was at least one red-neck driver among the cars flying past me that would gloat over blasting his horn, cursing a little or maybe even throwing his melted “7-11 slush cup” at me. But things were looking better for me today. None of the above happened. In fact, I was dumbfounded when a BMW actually slowed down and allowed me to cut across his lane to complete the turn. A glance at his license plate and almost let it turn into my demise. The oncoming traffic let me have it with a cacophony of horn blasts I’d missed on the other side. Cursing, horns, more cursing, and finally a ten-wheeler’s air horn blasting me into an “after burn” acceleration. As I gunned the machine and looked back in the direction of my turn, I laughed for the next hundred yards, almost missing “The Cove” turn off. The BMW plates did read, 4MYDICK.

Winding down the narrow road to the cove, I was struck by how comfortable I was in speeding up and slowing down, using just the right acceleration to engineer each turn, almost as if I’d been here before. In fact, it was the kind of familiarity that only comes with having traveled a road before. It had to be coincidence, I told myself. Coincidence, unless...it was a familiar place? A place I’d been before...before my memory loss.

I had tried many times to find the spot along the coast where everything started...the place I’d found myself that first morning. My consciousness that day back in November had been fragmented, like a movie edited for TV with arbitrary chunks of the film cut out. I’d remembered the unknown sandy beach, the diary, the bike, the drive along the coast, the pink facade of the Beverly Hills Hotel, entering the bungalow and the falling into bed. The rest was lost. Now, I remembered something else...a closed iron gate. The same iron gate that was now open in front of me.

I was excited. For the first time in months, I was connecting a fragment of memory to my life. The paved road ended as the sandy continuation stretched a small distance past the gate. A pellet-riddled sign, obviously the target for some kid’s Daisy Rifle, said, “No Entry After Dark.” The sign hadn’t any suggestion of no trespassing, so I assumed this was some kind of a local park area.  I eased the bike forward. The road narrowed as it got closer to the shore and then melted into “The Cove,” a lazy, peaceful area of sand and small palm trees…an area that was hauntingly familiar. I shut the engine off and parked on the harder sand. After standing for a moment, I closed my eyes and tried to remember.

Nothing.

I took a few steps forward. The water was gently lapping the shore, while just a little way out, an outcrop of rocks made the water choppy. To my right was a small pier...a place where two or three limited sized boats could dock. To my left, and maybe thirty of forty yards away was a cliff of rocks reaching up fifty or sixty feet. A narrow, well-worn path wound its way to the top...a natural viewpoint to enjoy the ocean. I sat down on the sand and studied my surroundings. Nothing was happening. So far, only the gate had any real significance, and maybe that hill?  Still, the atmosphere had the familiar feeling, even if the images didn’t register. I closed my eyes again and took a few deep breaths, lulling myself into a deep relaxation. Mathews had said it was possible to self-hypnotize rather easily, once one had achieved a comfort zone with a therapist. I’d never tried his suggestion before. I was worn out from the endless sessions bringing forth always the same office memory. That didn't put self-hypnosis high on my priorities. I sure as hell didn’t want an office now, but I wanted something...something to tie the gate to. I remained there for an hour or so...

Nothing.

Passing the gate as I left, I stopped, turned and once again closed my eyes. I listened, I smelled, I even opened my eyes, got off the bike and went over to the gate, closed them again and just touched the iron lattice work, but again...only the same narrow tunnel of memory was coming to me...nothing more. So, thinking I might as well try anything, “Charles,” I said, “Do you know this place? Have you been past this gate before?” I hoped for an answer. What I got was a reply. A low, cold, icy sounding reply, a whisper...from Charlie. “Get the Fuck out of here, Charles!”

I was sitting on the floor of my shower, the massaging jet of water pounding my head as I thought back over my day, over and over again...the day I would have to tell Mathews about.