Monterey Bay(4)

“I see,” she replied.

“Skeptical, eh? Well, I don’t blame you. Around here, I’m afraid I’m best known for embalming cats.” A pause. “And then there are the tours of the tide pools, but I tend to reserve those for only the most oceanically inclined of the hotel’s guests.”

She slumped against the bed and pressed the heels of her hands against her temples.

“What’s wrong? Should I get the bucket?”

“I’m not inclined toward the tide pools. Not one bit.”

“That’s funny. Your father said you were obsessed.”

“He was trying to get rid of me.”

“Now why would he want to do that?”

She shook her head, her hands still knitted around her skull as if holding her brains in place.

“I really think you should have some water.”

“Fine.”

“How about something to eat? Something that’s not a steak?”

“Just the water.”

His smile was so big that he almost appeared to be in pain. When he stood, she anticipated the relief of being left alone. But he remained in the room, stopping in the doorway and craning his neck just slightly beyond it.

“Arthur? Some water, if you please.”

In response, the drumming of fast footsteps, the squeak of a loosening tap, water splashing into a sink and continuing to splash for longer than it should have taken to fill a drinking glass. The biologist returned to her side.

“Sorry about the wait. It always takes a minute or two for it to run clear.”

Another smile, another alarming inflation of his face. She looked away again, her eyes landing on the nearest wall. Out of all the oddities this room contained, the little postcard galleries were perhaps the oddest. They were arranged with no deference to style or period and were, for the most part, in exceptionally bad taste: three too many Renoirs, the most predictable Manet in existence, something that looked like a lesser Picasso but was probably a Braque. There was also, however, a work she admired: Caravaggio’s rendering of Bacchus, his ruddy face and sunburned hands those of a cheerful outdoorsman, a torpor in his heavy-lidded stare that seemed both inept and threatening all at once.

“The god of wine,” the biologist explained.

“I know.” She looked down and straightened her blanket.

“Caravaggio.”

“I know.”

“A great artist, but an unpleasant man. Nervous, temperamental, violent. Kept bad company.”

“I know.”

“Art, then. Do you practice? Or do you just preach?”

She made fists, the blanket bunching between her fingers. “Neither.”

“Don’t lie.”

“How dare—”

“Beg pardon.” A voice from the doorway.

The biologist swiveled around and beckoned the interloper forward. She recognized this young man, but just barely: his hive of red hair, his stout limbs and blocky posture. He had been there postfall, amid the confusion and fear, but she couldn’t remember what role he had played or if he had been as nervous as he was right now. His hands trembled as he approached the bed and offered her the cup. She took it, drank, and passed it back without comment.

“Thank you, Arthur,” the biologist said. “She’s quite grateful.”

“Is there anything else?” Arthur murmured.

“You’re sure you don’t want that beer?” the biologist asked her.

“I’m sure.”

“How about some oil? From a basking shark liver?”

“From a what?”

“Arthur. The oil, please.”

“No, I—,” she insisted.

“Arthur, there’s a fresh box down in the garage.”

“There’s a fresher one at the market. I delivered it yesterday. I’ll go back and—”

“I said no!” she barked.

The two men froze, eyes wide. The biologist cocked his head in the direction of the door. Arthur scurried out of it. Margot clenched her calf muscles until they cramped.

“Sounds strange, doesn’t it?” The biologist’s words were coming much slower now, and with a new undertone of caution. “But it’s known in the East for its general tonic properties, especially for allergies and arthritis. It’s chock-full of something akin to cortin, a substance used to keep cats alive after they’ve been adrenalectomized. Also something of an aphrodisiac, if John’s Hollywood friends are to be believed.”

“Keep treating your son like that and he’ll revolt.”

When he threw back his head and laughed, a strip of white skin flashed beneath the border of his beard.

“Oh, is that what’s got you so worked up? Arthur’s not my son, I’m afraid, not at all. He’s an orphan of the classic type, dust bowl and whatnot, plucked straight from the pages of John’s book. Came to town to make a living in the canneries but seems to spend most of his time here in the lab. Fixing the Buick, catching the cats, being generally underfoot.”

She considered the Caravaggio again. Its initial appeal had faded a bit, its cheeks and lips now bordering on the feminine. Escape was pointless. Pointless then, pointless now.

“Funny,” he said. “I think I’ve forgotten your name.”