Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [116]
The Terby was almost immediately enveloped in a cloud of flies.
In the distance a horse was grazing—maybe a hundred feet from where I stood—and the moment the flies converged upon the doll, the horse jerked its head up and galloped even farther into the field as if offended by the presence of the thing.
Kill it, the writer whispered. Kill the thing now.
You no longer need to convince me, I told the writer.
The writer disliked me because I was trying to follow a chart.
I was following an outline. I was calculating the weather. I was predicting events. I wanted answers. I needed clarity. I had to control the world.
The writer yearned for chaos, mystery, death. These were his inspirations. This was the impulse he leaned toward. The writer wanted bombs exploding. The writer wanted the Olympian defeat. The writer craved myth and legend and coincidence and flames. The writer wanted Patrick Bateman back in our lives. The writer was hoping the horror of it all would galvanize me.
I was at a point where all of what the writer wanted filled me with simple remorse.
(I innocently believed in metaphor, which at this point the writer actively discouraged.)
There were now two opposing strategies for dealing with the current situation.
But the writer was winning, because as I ducked back into the Porsche I could smell a sea wind drifting toward me.
20. kentucky pete
I kept my gaze fixed on the horizon. The sky was turning black, and the clouds roiling in it kept changing shapes. They resembled waves, crests, the foaming surf of a thousand beaches. My eyes kept checking the rearview mirror to see if anything was following us. I did not give a shit how Sarah would react once she noticed her doll was gone. She was going to have to deal with it, rock ’n’ roll. The writer noticed we were not heading toward the college, and he brought up “Minus Numbers” again. I patiently told the writer that we were not going to the college. I told the writer we were heading back to 307 Elsinore Lane. I told the writer that we needed to get back to Robby’s room. There was information on Robby’s computer. We needed to see what that information consisted of. The information would clarify things. This was why we were heading toward the house and not the college.
What is in the computer is simply a warning, the writer argued.
The answer is in that manuscript and not in those files, the writer argued.
I was drifting off, thinking of my own manuscript. I was thinking of how I knew at that point in time that I was never going to finish it. I dealt with this fact stoically.
When the writer started laughing at me I felt transparent.
The writer laughed: Pull over.
The writer laughed: Drop me off.
The cell phone rang. I grabbed it from the dashboard. It was Pete.
“Where did you get that doll?” I asked the moment I clicked on.
“Hey, Bret Ellis,” Pete drawled, hacking up something. “It’s a little early in the day—we have ourselves an all-nighter?”
“No, no,” I said, flinching. “It’s not that. I just wanted to ask you about that doll—”
“What doll, man?”
“That bird thing that I asked you to get for my little girl?” I said, trying to sound like a concerned parent and not one of Pete’s favorite drug fiends. “I needed one of those Terbys for her birthday? And they were sold out everywhere? Do you remember that?”
“Oh, right, yeah, that ugly freakin’ thing you wanted so bad.”
“Yes, exactly,” I said, relieved that Pete actually remembered. We were on course. “Who did you get it from?”
I could hear him shrugging. “Just some contact.”
“Who was it?”
“Why?”
“I need specifics, Pete. Who was it?”
“You sure you’re not high, man?”
Realizing my voice sounded hoarse and labored, I tried to push it into a neutral tone.
“This is important, okay? You don’t need to name names or anything. Did your contact get this through a toy store or someone else or what?”
“I didn’t ask him where he got it.” I could see the glazed expression on Pete’s face in the way he said this. “He just brought it to me.”
Okay.