Left for Alive

by Tom Hogan

  LEFT FOR ALIVE

  TOM HOGAN

  Copyright © 2019 Tom Hogan.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Archway Publishing

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.archwaypublishing.com

  1 (888) 242-5904

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

  ISBN: 978-1-4808-7023-9 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4808-7024-6 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4808-7022-2 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018913320

  Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/30/2019

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Who

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  What

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Why

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Like I told you

  What I said

  Steal your face

  Right off your head

  Jerry Garcia/ Robert Hunter

  Dedicated to my best gal and best pal, Pamela Pearson, and the two coolest girls in the world, Rachel and Maya Hogan.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Some books, I hear, ‘write themselves.’ This isn’t one of them. It happened over the course of years and with the help of a number of friends and advisors. At the risk of forgetting some of them, I want to thank the following folks for all the help, advice and work they put into helping this book become a reality: Carol Broadbent, Elaine Cummings, Jim and Tracie Decker, Doug and Linda Gruehl, Amanda Iles, Jenny Overstreet, Tim Sawyer, and Ron Terry.

  WHO

  CHAPTER 1

  “It’s like I’m sitting with the cast of Deliverance,” the woman said, staring across the table at the three men. “All we’re missing is the little guy with the banjo.”

  The men stared back at her, their faces hard and flat. The woman returned their stares, smoke braiding from the unfiltered cigarette held deep between her second and third fingers, snaking and then disappearing in the black air overhead. A burst of breeze slid through the bar’s open door, pushing the smoke towards the men. When the one with the crooked nose frowned, the woman brought the cigarette down below table level, receiving a slight nod in return.

  It was after closing time and The Gimp’s was empty except for the four of them. The bar was dead dark, lit only by the dying fire at one end of the long room and the thin flicker of neon at the other. William and Lucky had stayed behind to help The Gimp close up. The woman was there uninvited.

  The left side of her face slipped in and out of shadow in time with the neon, the whirring of the tape recorder the only sound. Her eyes moved to it. “Fine. We’ll go off the record, if that’ll make you boys more talkative.” She jabbed her cigarette into the heavy glass ashtray and hit the Off switch.

  She shook a fresh cigarette from the pack in front of her. None of the men made a move for the matches. She lit the cigarette herself and held the flaming match in front of her. “But let’s get a few things straight, okay?” she said as the flame closed in on her fingers. “You don’t want to help me, that’s fine. Just don’t insult my intelligence in the process.”

  The men’s eyes moved from her face to the flame, which had reached her skin. She held the match a final beat, her eyes looking past the flame at the men, then shook it out with a single snap of her wrist. “For starters, lose the aw-shucks routine, okay? I mean, please. You guys are about as simple as calculus.” She patted her notebook with her cigarette hand, dropping a touch of ash onto the cover. “According to my research I’m sitting across from a combined nine years of higher education and six years of prison time. So spare me the Gomer Pyle act, okay?”

  The tall broke-nose one broke the silence. “Since you asked so nicely, how can we help?”

  The woman opened the notebook and took out two pieces of paper. Her fingers were long and yellow, the nails bitten just short of the point of pain. She pushed the papers across the table, the corner of one catching for a moment in the heavy grain.

  The Gimp turned on a standing lamp with a ratty beige shade. The tall man read the two pages without touching them and without comment or expression. Then he pushed them over to The Gimp, who hummed tonelessly as his finger moved down the page. Lucky sidled to the back of the wheelchair and read over The Gimp’s shoulder, his lips moving slightly as he kept pace.

  “You write well,” the tall one said, when the men had finished reading. “The first one—the Fairchild piece—grabs you from the opening paragraph.”

  “You’re only saying that because you don’t want me to write the second one.”

  “I’m saying that because the second one is lazy reporting. Your hypothesis is shaky, so you prop it up with a couple of sensational anecdotes and hope no one notices the lack of journalistic integrity.”

  “My, my. From hillbilly twang to full-scale erudition in six seconds.” When he didn’t return the smile, she dropped hers. “You miss it much, William? The teaching? I’ll bet you were a hell of a professor.” She pushed on. “The first one—the one you like so much—that’s trodden ground. There’s always a market for Donna Fairchild,” she held up her fingers in quote marks—“‘the Salinger of the left’—as long as she stays disappeared. So they’ll publish it and I’ll get to pay my rent, neither o
f which is a bad thing.”

  She nodded at the second piece of paper. “But this one. All the mystery surrounding your boy makes it more compelling. And you know it. If I connect the dots the way I think I can…” She tapped the paper. “I get the cover and a staff position. Especially if your pal Josh and Fairchild are connected. And I think they are. It all comes down to the dots.”

  “What kind of dots?” The Gimp pushed back from the table and wheeled his way among the tables, emptying the ashtrays into a plastic bar hanging from his armrest.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the woman said, mocking his nonchalant tone. “You mean, outside of his links to Fairchild and the Vasquez murder? Or why he’s always the cops’ first stop whenever there’s a rape they can’t solve? Or where he got the money to buy half this mountain?” She stubbed out the cigarette, picked up the notebook and tape recorder, and stood up. “Or where he goes when he disappears every six months?”

  She smiled slightly as he stopped wheeling. “Didn’t think I knew about the disappearances, did you?”

  She walked to the door and stopped, her hand hovering over the knob. She turned and fixed her eyes on William. “Still don’t think I’ll write it, Will?”

  “I think you’ll try. I don’t think you’ll finish it, though.”

  Her hand tightened on the knob. “If you knew anything about reporters, you’d know the last thing you do is threaten us.”

  He nodded. “And if you knew anything about convicts, you’d know that if we were going to hurt you, the last thing we’d do would be warn you first.”

  She started to say something, then stopped. She turned the knob and stepped out into the night.

  CHAPTER 2

  William looked up from the New York Times crossword puzzle and laid down his pen. “I’ve never asked anyone to leave this table. You seem determined to be the first.”

  “I’m just doing my job, William.”

  “How Third Reich of you.” He returned to the puzzle. “Your job damages people. Then you rationalize that damage with bromides about ‘the public’s right to know’ and how Truth—with a capital T—is the ultimate arbiter.” Still not looking up, “Isn’t this where you tell me that sunshine is the best disinfectant?”

  Carol smiled into the top of his head. “All those universities that blackballed you, I wish they knew the righteousness and condescension they’re missing.”

  They were sitting in William’s office, the sole table in the back corner of a Kinsella coffeehouse. A ‘Reserved’ sign, which the owner kept perpetually on the table to accommodate William’s floating office hours, sat next to the ashtray. The tabletop was heavily lacquered, the edges bearing the short, straight marks of untended cigarettes. The walls were cluttered with untended bookshelves interrupted by posters of old jazz greats.

  When William didn’t look up from the newspaper, Carol’s voice sharpened. “You know, William, for someone who makes his living as a therapist—unlicensed, I’d like to point out—I’m not getting much empathy here.”

  “I’m off duty.”

  “Then start the clock. I’ll pay, if that’s what it takes to get you off your high horse and into a normal conversation.” She pulled a cigarette from the pack. William picked up the matches next to them and struck one, cupping its flame. The flickering light illuminated the battered nose pushed to one side, the sad black eyes, the thinning hair forming a loose widow’s peak, black going gray.

  “Have you ever read any of my articles, Will? See? And you’re well-read. I’m a good writer going to waste, making ends meet with travel articles and personality pieces. My last published piece was for People, about a guy who runs a mile every day on his hands. The Pulitzer people should be calling any day.”

  “You poor dear.”

  “Okay, I deserved that one.” She drained her coffee, put the cup to the side. “Look, I’m not looking to hurt anyone here. I like you guys, I really do. But I’m getting too old to be worrying about when my health insurance is going to reclassify me as a bad risk. I need to get onto someone’s books full-time.”

  “And I should help you because…?”

  “Because someone’s going to get this story, and you should hope it’s me. I play fair. The ones coming after me won’t.”

  “And why should I believe there will be others? There haven’t been so far.”

  “Wise up, William. We’re talking about Donna Fairchild here. Glamor girl attorney, runs with the Panthers, gets wrapped up in a murder, then vanishes for the past three years. Just because she’s not on the cover of TIME anymore, don’t believe for a moment she’s yesterday’s news. She’s just one bombing or one ghetto going up in smoke from being front page again. And when that happens they won’t send a feature writer like me—someone who might treat her with some understanding or restraint. They’ll send the red-meat boys. And when those guys start pulling on all the loose strings I’m seeing around here, you and your friends are screwed. They’ll crack your boy Josh’s life open like a walnut. Yours, too, if you’re involved.”

  She took a long drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out. “Here’s what I negotiated with my editor. I finish up the ‘search for Donna Fairchild’ piece, with its nice blend of mystery and futility. He’ll hold it for three weeks, then he runs it.”

  She tapped the notebook. “He’s giving me three weeks at half pay to pursue the other story, the feature about the mysterious prison reformer. Who bought half a mountain and populated it with ex-cons. And who’s pals with Donna Fairchild. If it plays out the way I think it will, he’ll run it as a major feature, cover the other half of my expenses here and triple what he was going to pay me for the Fairchild piece.” She raised her eyebrows, looking at him through the last of the smoke. “And if it’s a cover, then I go on staff. Which means salary and benefits.”

  She raised her chin slightly and looked hard at him. “You’re me. Which story would you go with?

  CHAPTER 3

  It was three in the morning. The Gimp and Carol sat on opposite sides of the bar, an empty pitcher between them.

  “So you’re not gonna tell me anything about him?” she asked, the beer tripping her tongue slightly.

  “Nope.” He swiped idly at the bar with his washcloth. “And you’re still not going to sleep with me?”

  “I’m thirty-eight years old. How many years older than you does that make me?”

  “Seven. When did math enter into this conversation?”

  Carol rested her chin on her hand and looked at The Gimp. Her face was tight-skinned and strong-boned, with a blunted nose and hazel eyes that turned down slightly. The skin had seen too much sun in its youth. Her hair, auburn and shot with gray, was short and without any sense of style. She smiled grudgingly at The Gimp with fine, even, tobacco-stained teeth.

  “It’s sweet of you to ask, but I never fuck my sources.”

  “I’m not a source.”

  “Yet.”

  He almost smiled. “You don’t give up, I’ll give you that.” The smile slid away. “But this act is wearing thin, honey. On everyone. You’re up here, drinking my beer, prying into the lives of my friends. William would call that behavior ‘reprehensible’.”

  She shrugged. “When you’re a reporter, you get called a lot of things. William’s just got a larger vocabulary than most. Look, it’s in the job description to pry, to ask questions people don’t want to answer. But I take your point, about the beer at least.” She tapped the pitcher with her pen. “How about this? Whenever I’m paying, I’m entitled to pry. That way you’ll know when I’m working and when I’m not.”

  “So everything after closing is off the record?”

  “As long as you’re buying.”

  The Gimp thought for a moment, then pushed back from the table. “I’ve got to put the money away before I drink any more.” He handed the pitcher to her. “Fill that up while I�
�m gone.”

  Carol shook a cigarette from the pack and sat back. She was midway through her second week in the area and had become a familiar face at the bar. She worked out of her motel room in San Tomas, a drab square with coffee-colored wallpaper and thin carpet. The room had two beds—one with rumpled sheets, the other populated by two stacks of papers that she rotated between.

  Mornings—when the officials were cooperative—she was out at the prison. Or the San Tomas library when they weren’t. Afternoons she brought a six-pack of Coke back to the room and worked the phones, trying to track down the released prisoners or retired guards from the time of the murder. Late afternoon she either walked the beach at San Tomas or drove up to the mountains to try to get a line on Donna Fairchild. Then it was usually on to The Gimp’s for the evening.

  “You okay to drive?” he asked, wheeling back from the office.

  “My rental knows the road by heart now.”

  He nodded overhead. “There’s a guest bedroom, you know. And there’s always the master suite.”

  “If your friend Josh doesn’t surface soon, I might just take you up on it, if only to get a letter to Penthouse out of it. Sex with amputees—they love that shit.”

  “You’re waiting for Josh, it may be a long wait.”

  “Not from what I hear. Every time he’s disappeared in the past, he’s been gone a week, tops.”

  “Even if you’re right, when he gets back, he won’t talk to you.”

  “It’ll be a costly silence, then.”

  The Gimp’s eyes heated up. “Listen, just so my conscience is clear…” He shifted in his chair. “You better start thinking how much this story is worth to you.”

  She held his eyes. “Like I told William the other night, I don’t scare that easy.”

  He sprayed the sink with the nozzle, then wiped it down. Then he put down the rag. “Okay. Just so you’re warned. If you ever do meet Josh, look at his hands. At the scars. They’re from taking knives away from guys who came at him in the joint. He’s got another scar on his back—a deep one—from where some prick jumped him one night with a hatchet. Josh broke the guy’s back before he collapsed.”