"It really must have hit a raw nerve," Zachary says.
"My achilles heel, I guess," Gustavo replies. "It is painful to be attracted to someone who has no reciprocal attraction. I mean, I don't dare think that with all of the pro fighters, movie stars, models, or business executives you have to choose from that you would ever want to be with me. That would be the absolute height of hysterical narcissism or ego mania."
"So I appeal to you?"
"Of course."
"Why do say it with such surety? I would not expect a person like yourself, absorbed in the world of creativity and beauty, to find appeal in a brutish, roguish guy like me."
"I don't see a brute or a rogue," Gustavo replies.
"Thank you, my friend."
"Can we just forget that I exposed so much insecurity just now? I had a weak moment. Please give it no more thought."
"Sexuality is complicated with me," Zachary says. "Attraction only goes so far. There are things I need from sex that are remarkably personal. I don't speak about it, hardly ever, because I don't need people's judgements, opinions, protestations, or approvals. That is probably very confusing, but it is all I want to say about it."
"You are under no obligation or expectation to share it," Gustavo says. "We are getting to know one another, under times of great distress, and we have already established some solid trust. I value that. Nothing more is expected."
Both men are distracted by an approaching motorboat with "Patrol" painted on the side. Its occupants are two uniformed men, one of whom is photographing them in the paddleboat.
"Officers, is there a problem?" Zachary asks the men.
"Is your boat broken?" the motorboat driver asks. "You are drifting backwards."
"No, we are just resting before paddling back home."
"Fine."
"Are you officers with Big Bear Lake Coast Guard?" Zachary asks.
"No, we patrol as part of a volunteer auxiliary group for the coast guard," the driver answers, as he begins maneuvering the boat away. "Stay safe, gentlemen."
Gustavo and Zachary watch the boat zoom out of the cove. The men in the motorboat round the bend without looking back at the paddleboat.
"What the hell?" Gustavo comments. "A volunteer patrol?"
"It is probably legitimate, but that's two photographers in one morning," Zachary says. "Let's cross the lake back to the cabin and decide what we want to do."
Gustavo and Zachary paddle with synchronized efforts and traverse the lake with only an interruption from a sailboat that was having trouble catching the direction of the wind. When just two hundred feet from the cabin's shore, the two men in the patrol motorboat reappear.
"Be ready to jump and swim," Zachary says as the motorboat pulls up beside them.
Gustavo moves to the edge of his seat, eager to spring overboard and take his chances in the cold water rather than being captured on the paddleboat.
"Excuse me," the driver of the motorboat says to Zachary, "are you that fighter guy?"
"I work in a church," Zachary answers, laughing as if the uniformed man's notion is ridiculous. "I guess you could say I fight for souls."
"I swear I have seen you on television. One of the sports channels."
"No, my church is humble and modest. No television cameras."
"We get celebrities up here from time to time," the uniformed man continues. "We try to let them be. Live and let live. But my boss is a fighting fan. After seeing your picture he directed us to check with you and see if you would sign autographs at the station."
"He is going to be quite disappointed to learn the truth," Zachary replies.
"They let you wear a goatee in a church?"
"Certainly. Facial hair is not prohibited."
"Have a good day, gentleman."
Gustavo and Zachary wait until the motorboat is at least a quarter mile away before they vigorously paddle back to the cabin, run inside, and grab their luggage.
32
Crescent
Gustavo cannot help but repeatedly look back as he and Zachary descend the serpentine roads in the San Bernardino Mountains in the backseat of a shared ride car. The driver delivers them to Anaheim, near the entrance to Disneyland. They walk several blocks to a commercial district, and when confident that no one is following them, they take another shared ride south to Newport Beach. They again switch vehicles for the final lap of the trip, exiting in front of a large condominium complex on North Coast Highway. Once the driver pulls away, they stroll away from the complex, heading south on McKnight Drive.
Three blocks later Zachary leads Gustavo to a small Spanish house with white stucco walls, a red-tiled roof, a brick-paved walkway, and red awnings hovering over the front windows. They retrieve the key from its designated hiding spot and enter the cottage-like home. Terra cotta tile floors, arched room dividers, dark wooden ceiling beams, decorative wrought iron, and and exuberant hand-painted kitchen tiles continue adhere to the Spanish style indoors too. Gustavo stands at the living room window and admires the catty-corner view of a meadow-like park and Pacific Ocean views.
"This is one of my favorite places," Zachary says.
"You have stayed in this house before?" Gustavo asks.
"No, I am talking about Crescent Bay in Laguna Beach. Wait until you see it up close."
"It is spectacular already. Why did you choose this?"
"I want to share it with you," Zachary answers. "I saw the rental opening online during the drive and booked it. Most of the homes around this part of Laguna Beach are mansions, but this little old place is charming and it is rare to find a place this close to the beach."
"Which bedroom do I take?" Gustavo asks.
"You choose first."
"I would insist on you taking the master bedroom, but both bedrooms look the same size and share one bathroom."
Gustavo conceals his duffel bag in one of the rooms and stands at the doorway to the bedroom where Zachary is unpacking a few pairs of his clothes and personal items.
"What's on your mind, my friend?" Zachary asks.
"We could not talk in the cars in front of the drivers and I have been anxious to ask you about what happened on the lake," Gustavo answers. "Were we caught for sure?"
"Not for certain. But just uploading that picture they took of us to a social media site, or wherever, is plenty of reason to bolt like we did."
"I agree. Do people recognize you often?"
"Not every day. It happens like that though, when least expected."
"I love that we are here," Gustavo says. "But we are now a good number of hours from Laughlin. Are you worried we won't be able to respond in time when Aleksey's captors finally contact you?"
"No, for two reasons," Zachary answers. "First, I think they jettisoned Aleksey out of Laughlin fairly quickly. He could be anywhere at this point. Second, we had to get a good distance away from Big Bear Lake. I am assuming our picture got posted somewhere."
"The only problem with you choosing Laguna Beach is that some of my paintings are in galleries here. I am not famous. But-"
"Not yet," Zachary interjects, smiling and winking.
"But I am recognizable to some of the artists and art gallery owners-and there are many here."
"I'm not worried. We'll keep you out of the galleries and fancy restaurants and off the streets."
Disguised in a cap sitting low over his brow, Zachary tells Gustavo he is setting out on foot for groceries. With the specialty store just over a mile away, he urges Gustavo not to worry about him in the event he is gone for an hour or more.
Gustavo retreats to his room, lays on the bed, and searches online again through his phone. There is precious little to be found using the search terms "clairvoyant cobra" or "clairvoyant serpent" or "Greenacres cobra." The mentions he does find are all in the context of Hollywood folklore. One old article claims the bejeweled wand is strictly imaginary, part of a morality tale about living in the moment, and had nothing whatsoever to do with Harold Lloyd and Mildred Davis. Another columnist similarly characterizes it as a propaganda story created at the time to counter the growing public interest in the occult or mysticism. A third piece is a translation of a university professor's lecture on spirituality and its premise is that even if one were able to experiment with clairvoyance, through an instrument like "the fabled Hollywood hooded serpent staff," one would be best advised to "never peek into the future and risk defeat from loathing moments to come, and feeling powerless to chart one's own-not predestined-course."
"Gobbledygook," Gustavo mutters to himself. "Would I use it if it could help us find Aleksey and reach safety? Damn right, I would."
Full of skepticism, Gustavo decides to unsheathe the wand. He makes a mental note of how to rewrap it in the plastic sheets as he peels away the layers and finds he is again stunned by the opulence of the gems and metals. He lays it on a cushion atop the chest of drawers opposite the bed. He studies its shapes and lines. He imagines the hands who have held it. He stares into the cobra's violet eyes.
There are no flashes of light or darkness. No screams, terrors, or dream-like states. No music. No epiphanies.