Cyrus sighed and bent his head to the frayed paper. Some of the clues were beyond him:Marla’s manhad filled in asTrump, which Cyrus had always believed was an ace; and apparentlyBert’s buddywasErnie. He was especially pleased when he’d get an answer without having to check Arthur’s work.“Outcry of the greedy,”he read aloud, tapping the pencil to his temple. He hunched closer to his lap, carefully forming the letters in the four little boxes.M-I-N-E.
“He can really dish it out,”Cyrus said, turning the phrase over and over, giving emphasis to different words in hopes that the answer would come in a flash.
“Chef,”said a voice behind him; then a light laugh. He hadn’t even seen Dorothea approaching, but he nodded and filled in what now was crystal clear. He rolled the pencil into the crossword puzzle and stood up, stamping slush from his boots. He followed his wife into their oneroom house.
Dorothea shrugged off her parka and began to unpack containers of coleslaw and turkey loaf, the blue plate special of the day. Her hands fluttered nervously over the plastic tablecloth like two scattering birds.
Finally, she sat down and turned bright black eyes to her husband.
“Today,” she told him. “Uyelo. He is coming.”
Cyrus looked at the plump curve of her hips, the heavy braid of white hair that quivered down her wide back. She had always been in touch with the spirits. He sank heavily into a chair across from Dorothea, pretending to be annoyed with her mystical hints. This was a game they played, one that had been going on for sixty years. He stabbed at the turkey loaf with his fork. “You’re crazy, woman,” he said gruffly, when what he really meant was,You are my life. “How can you know this?” he said.You can still amaze me.
Dorothea made a noncommittal sound. Then she turned her head and sniffed, as if the answers came to her on a Chinook wind. She swung her gaze to him, level and dark, and she pointed a bent, knotted finger.
“You watch,” she said, the trace of a smile peeking out from behind her warning. She reached across the table and grasped Cyrus’s hand with a strength and a conviction that speeded his pulse. He looked up at her.I love you, she was saying, clear in this space between them where there were no words.Walk beside me forever.
ALEX MADE TWO PHONE CALLS. THE FIRST WAS TO HERB SILVER, ordering him to postpone the production ofMacbethindefinitely; to warehouse all the scenery and props in Scotland and send everyone else home until Alex sent further instructions. The second was to Michaela, telling her to anticipate the publicity such an abrupt change in schedule was going to cause. “I don’t care what you leak to the press,” Alex said wearily. “Make up some excuse that doesn’t sound like I’m covering for a stay at the Betty Ford Clinic.”
“What’s really going on, Alex?” Michaela demanded, but Alex couldn’t speak past the closing of his throat. He hung up on her before he was forced to recount what had happened.
Cassie had left him. Again.
Except this time it was different. There hadn’t even been a fight, a catalyst. She had just taken off as if it had been premeditated.
Alex stretched back on the bed and touched the pile of clothes she had been packing for Scotland, clothes that wouldn’t make a hell of a lot of difference now. Goddammit, last week had been perfect. He had been keeping himself in check, refusing to let it start all over. And it had been working: when he laid his hands on Cassie he’d been gentle and tender and everything she deserved. He had watched Cassie, in return, giving him tiny pieces of herself—a kiss here, a question there, a memory. Alex had been gathering these tokens like wildflowers, waiting for the moment when he would have all of her, a lush bouquet that bloomed in his presence.
He had given her back her past, with a few details missing that she’d obviously figured out herself. He never meant to hurt Cassie, God, not Cassie, and every time he struck her he swore that it wouldn’t happen again. He wasn’t just saying that; he really did mean it. If he could have found a way to turn the red rage into himself instead of toward her, he would have done it in a heartbeat.
Alex rolled to a sitting position and looked out at the rainy morning.
He’d spent most of last night with John, scouring the neighborhoods surrounding Bel-Air. John had even checked the police station, discreetly. None of the airlines or bus depots had had a passenger with her name, married or maiden. Finally, Alex had given up. He’d gone to sit in the bedroom, not sleeping, just waiting for her to come back to him.
She had to come back. If the press found out that Cassie had left him, or even that she was missing, all kinds of rumors were going to fly—about infidelities, divorce, maybe even the sorry truth. Whatever form it took, the publicity generated would decimate his chances for the Oscars. He had always been able to count on his sterling reputation.
Alex ran his hand over his stubbled jaw. She had to come back. He couldn’t live without her. Cassie was the only person in his entire life who had reached into him and pulled out the fine, glowing soul and said over and over,Yes, you are good. He remembered that once in the redwood forests they had seen two separate giant sequoias that had twined around each other, leaning into the same sun, until they had grafted themselves together into a single tree. He would not admit this to anyone but himself, but Cassie was, simply, the point at which Alexander Riveaux ended and Alex Rivers began.
AT EXACTLY NINE O’CLOCK, A MAINTENANCE MAN UNLOCKED CASSIE’S for Alex. “Thanks,” he said, staring at the man, unsure of whether or not he was supposed to tip him. Alex closed the door, checking the leather swivel chair for Cassie’s imprint, searching out clues that would suggest she’d recently been there.
He was sifting through the research on her desk when the door swung open. “Good morning,” a gravelly voice intoned, and Alex glanced up to see Archibald Custer bearing down on him, his hand held to the voice microphone at his throat. “Oh.” He let his eyes sweep the room, searching for Cassie. “I was told your wife had been ill. When I saw the light on, I thought . . . well, I was just looking for her.”
“She isn’t here,” Alex said, gesturing. “You probably noticed.”
Archibald Custer stared at him strangely. “Butyouare,” he said.
Alex glanced down at his fingers, clutching a manila file markedPersonal and Confidential. His thoughts tumbled over each other: Cassie was not here. Cassie had not told Custer her whereabouts, or he wouldn’t be looking for her also. “She asked me to send her some things,” Alex said, pretending to be completely surprised when Custer raised his eyebrows at this mention of Cassie being somewhere other than L.A.
“Ah . . . she must not have had a chance to phone you yet. Her father’s been hospitalized, in Maine, and she was called in to look after him.”
He glanced at his watch, an easy prop. “I’m sure she’ll be getting in touch with you in no time. Family emergencies, you understand.” He tapped the file on the edge of the desk. “Is there something I can ask her for you? Or send to her with all this?”
Custer flapped about for a moment, taking in the carelessly tossed files and the clutter that defined the little office. Satisfied that she had indeed left last-minute, he shook his head. “We’ll get someone from the department to cover for her until the situation sorts itself out,” he said graciously. “Tell her not to worry about it.”
“No,” Alex said. “I’m sure she won’t.” He watched Custer leave, and then sank down into the chair behind the desk. Christ, he washelpingCassie. He had just smoothed one of the snags in her escape. He stared blankly at the manila folder, at the rough black-and-white photos scattered across the desk’s surface. Skulls, and a pelvis, and a series of bones that might have been fingers once. Nothing out of the ordinary for Cassie. She’d been studying things like this since before he’d even known her.
He was up and through the door before he could map out where he was going. Turning through the winding campus roads ofUCLA, he made his way to the highway, to Westwood. He remembered which apartment was Ophelia’s only because of a stooped palm tree in front of it that Cassie said had always reminded her of an old man.
Alex rammed his fist against the door. “Goddammit, open up, Ophelia. I know she’s in there.” He took a deep breath, ready to break down the door with his shoulder, the way his stunt doubles had done in the past.
