Tom said, "Just finishing up a sale, babe."

She didn't smile or answer, just kept standing there in the door. I heard a powerful engine idling and looked out to see a white Ford van conversion, smoke puffing from its rear.

The woman cleared her throat.

Tom said, "Here you go, pal, enjoy 'em."

I left the store, taking as long as possible to get back to the Seville. Once in the car, I sat behind the wheel pretending to look for something. A few seconds later Tom Shea came out of the shop and followed his wife to the van. She got behind the wheel and closed the driver's door and a metal ramp slid out from the rear of the vehicle. It touched the asphalt and I heard it scrape. Tom opened the rear door and reached in, back muscles bunching, as he pulled on something. A moment later an electric wheelchair appeared in the doorway, bearing a slumping, bronze-haired boy.

Tom guided the chair down the ramp. I started the Seville and inched out, watching. The boy could have been anywhere from twelve to twenty. His head was large and it lolled, eyes wide, tongue extended. His shrunken body was belted into the chair. Despite the restraint, he slanted sharply to the right, the head almost touching his right shoulder. One arm was belted, too. The other clutched a joystick at the front of the chair.

Tom wasn't smiling. He said something, and the joystick hand moved. The chair rolled down the ramp, very slowly, and when it was on the asphalt Tom closed the van door. Then he got behind the chair and guided it up the cement slope toward the store. The van's engine cut off and Gwen Shea came around, sprinted up ahead, and held the store door. As Tom eased the chair through, I caught a glimpse of the boy's face. Sleepy, but grinning. Big grin, almost voracious.

His hair a thick, straight mat, the kind that might turn silver-minnow when it aged.

But he reminded me of more than his father.

As I drove away, I realized what it was.

The grin. Triumphant, cartoonish.

He was an atrophied version of the surfer on the sign.

20

Years ago, the mother of a severely brain-damaged child sat in my hospital office and cried for half an hour without break. When she finally stopped, she said, "I love her, but God forgive me, sometimes I want her to die." She never cried again in my presence, and whenever we passed in the hall she looked away from me with a face that was part despair, part rage.

The same face Gwen Shea wore.

The idea of approaching her about a twenty-one-year-old disappearance seemed ridiculous and cruel. What reason did I have to believe Best wasn't just an old man deluded by hope?

I caught a green light and sped out of Malibu into the Palisades, making my way to Rockingham Avenue and possibly more delusions.

The house was a sizable two-story Tudor with pink roses and blue agapanthus along the front and a low hedge of waxy privet bordering the brick walkway. A white Ford Taurus with a rental sticker sat in the driveway. Ken Lowell answered the door wearing a blue suit and holding a Filofax. His shoes were shined and his hair was wet.

"Morning, just on my way out."

He let me into a parqueted foyer. A statuary-marble center table held a black vase full of white silk flowers. Behind it, the stairway was a softly curving arc of polished oak.

The front rooms on either side were dark and vaulted, shaded by heavy cream damask drapes and filled with gleaming furniture.

"Nice repo," I said.

Ken nodded. "The owners cut out to Europe overnight. Food in the fridge and clothes in the closet. Some kind of shopping center deal that went bad. People are looking for them."

"Been seeing a lot of that lately?"

"More than usual for the last couple of years. It's what we specialize in. We pick them up from the bank, rehab them, and turn them around. I guess that makes us capitalist exploiters." He smiled and picked out one of the silk flowers. "It's not what I thought I'd be doing when I was in Berkeley."

"What were you interested in then?"

"My sister Jo was an archaeology major; she turned me on to old bones. After she graduated, she went to Nepal to climb around and explore. I flew there to be with her and we hung out together in Katmandu- place called Freak Street, Telegraph Avenue transplanted to the Himalayas." He shook his head and looked at the flower. "I was with her when she died."

"What happened?" I said.

"We were hiking. She was experienced, very athletic. This was just a stroll for her. But she put her foot down and something gave way and she fell over a hundred feet. I was way behind. She passed right by me as she went down, landed on a ledge full of sharp rocks." He touched his eyes and pressed down on the lids. Then his hands flew to his lapels.

A door opened on the upstairs landing, and Lucy came down the stairs.

"Morning," she said, looking at Ken. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's great." He smiled and buttoned his jacket. "I should be back around six. Don't worry about your car, I'll have it brought over." A wave, and he was gone.

"Looks like you're being well taken care of," I said.

"He's a sweet guy." She looked at the living room. "Not too shabby for a hideout, huh? Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thanks."

"Would you like to talk outside? It's nice in here, but I find it a little gloomy."

The backyard was generous, with a pork-chop-shaped swimming pool and waterfall spa. A brick patio running along the rear of the house contained a table and chairs and potted plants that needed watering. The neighboring properties were blocked from view by tall honeysuckle hedges and billowing mounds of plumbago.

We sat. Lucy crossed her legs and looked up at the sky. Her eyes were tired, and she seemed to be fighting tears.

"What is it?" I said.

"I can't stop thinking about Puck."

After a second's debate, I said, "He called your- called Lowell two days ago to tell him you were in the hospital. He obviously cares about you, but something's keeping him out of town."

Her legs uncrossed and her head shot forward. "Why would he call him-how do you know this?"

"Lowell phoned me, wanting to talk about you. I told him I couldn't without your permission."

"That's crazy. Why would Puck call him?"

"He knew you were at Woodbridge."

"He must have found out some- absurd. I don't understand any of this."

"I got the impression Puck had been in contact with him."

She stared at me, then lowered her head, as if ashamed.

"He told me Puck had a drug problem," I said. "I didn't assume it was true, but Milo checked it out."

Her mouth opened, then closed. Her fingernails scraped the glass top of the table, and my short hairs rose.

"Damn him. He had no right- why did Milo have to do that?"

"For your sake. And Puck's. We couldn't understand why he couldn't come back to see you, figured he might be in some kind of trouble. How long's he been addicted?"

"He- I don't know, exactly. He started smoking grass in prep school. By the time he started Tufts he was already into… the bad stuff. He had to drop out in his junior year because a campus policeman caught him shooting up in a dorm room. After that he didn't care and just hit the streets. The police kept picking him up for vagrancy, and the system kept spitting him back. He tried to get help- student health, free clinics, private doctors. Nothing worked. It's a disease."

Her fingers ran down the glass again, but silently.

"Even with all his problems," she said softly, "he was good to me- he cares about me. That's what scares me. He must be in trouble. It would have to be something serious for him not to be here."