“I didn’t say that.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to—”
“Bullshit—tell me—”
His eyes fritzed, lower lip trembled—pale.
“What?”
Footsteps up the path. “They’re looking for you, kiddo—you’re screwed.”
“No,” I said. “You’re screwed. Hawley’s been murdered. Brutally. If you don’t spill the beans, I’ll take it up with the Los Angeles Police Department, Newton Station, Officer Lanterman. And unlike you and me, he’s no wimp.”
His eyes went calculating, REM wide awake.
“Quick,” I said. “Before they bounce me outta here.”
“She was waitstaff, okay. Big deal. For less than a year, before she split for Santa Cruz and got herself a nasty junk habit.”
“And then?”
“Then kaput—she overdosed like an idiot, and her mother ID’d the body and it was over. Miserable shit.”
Footsteps up the stairs.
“They tell you this?”
He gritted teeth.
“It’s me or the cops, old man. Did. They. Tell you?”
“You better leave.”
“Naw, there’s more. She worked here—and then what?”
“And then she disappeared. Off the books. And you better disappear too.” He was seething—hard knock at the door.
“Mr. Gladstone.”
Our eyes met in the zone of pressure.
“Take my advice,” he said, “play it cool or you’re gonna get yourself in some awful trouble.”
“Talk,” I whispered, holding my ground. “Now.”
Another knock. “Mr. Gladstone?”
He croaked, “One minute.” Then he whispered: “They’ll kill me.”
I said, “I’ll play dumb, you tell me what I need to know.”
A security man’s firm voice: “Mr. Gladstone, please open the door.”
He went panic-eyed; the knob was turning.
“She wanted to move on, change her name. They tried to help her—changed her name, she—”
“Changed her name? To what?”
He shivered, the door jiggled. Panic eyes, mouthing near silence: “She’s—she…”
“She what?”
But the door was open—a muscle-bound groundskeeper stood before us, elderly but taut in leather sandals, white linens, and a nametag that said Beadle. Gladstone greeted him as Jimmy.
“Everything okay, Mr. Gladstone?”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “This is my nephew—Adam. He wanted to check out the new digs.”
“That’s wonderful,” Jim said flatly. “Adam, our founders got word of your visit. They’re so happy you came. And they’d like to meet you personally. Give you a tour of the grounds.”
“Founders?” My heart started pounding.
“Yes, Mr. Kipler and Mr. Paulsen.”
I looked to Gladstone—he colored with defeat. “Go ahead, kid,” he said, “take the tour.”
“Please follow me,” Jim said. Then, to Gladstone: “You have a massage scheduled for this afternoon? I’ll send Kayla.”
Gladstone nodded, faking contentment, but something there was frail and broken.
Back down the path I walked in nervous silence with Jim, the new age bruiser. We strolled along the curving river back toward some kind of big Spanish-style community building way up ahead, nestled between high hedge walls. I caught a few more idling seniors standing out under the brown awning, kibbitzing and laughing. Then we passed a newer building, a closed classroom, like a kindergarten romper room. Inside the windowed door, a heavy woman in a pilot’s jumpsuit walked around pontificating to seven or eight oldies sitting crisscross applesauce—they appeared to be screaming at the top of their lungs, heads to the ceiling, but I didn’t hear a peep—soundproofed. Then we passed another brick building—on the third story, an open window. I caught a flash of two older women, naked, standing close to each other but not touching, doing some kind of healing tai chi thing.
“This is a heck of a retirement community,” I finally blurted.
“Oh, it’s much more than that,” Jim said. “Seniors come here for life transformation.”
“Sounds…expensive.”
“Actually, money’s not the only criteria for entry. There’s an extensive interview process. The committee handpicks applicants who are truly open-minded, because a lot of experimental therapies get their start here.”
“What kind?”
“Amazing stuff,” he said. “Everything from memory enhancement to intuitive nutrition, alt meds, ayurvedic healing, expedited hospice—”
“What’s…that?”
