One Got Away

by S. A. Lelchuk

  “Soon. Go jump in the water first. Eating always feels better after a cold dip.”

  I run toward the waterline, the sand hardening. Sheets of white surf rock into the shore. I cast a look behind me to my family, framed by the high bluffs of Bolinas, and I get a happy shiver knowing that our little blue house is up there too, waiting for us.

  The ocean seems strange. The water is sucking out, sucking away, so even as I run toward the sea it retreats. I run faster, but my feet seem slow, sticky. I can see lumps of slimy brown driftwood, and shells, and here and there my eyes take in white flashes that must be the bones of fish. Now the water is a strange pea color that I have never seen before, eerily calm, not a ripple. The ocean looks like a plane of flat green glass. Something building, forming, out on the horizon.

  A wave. Impossibly big. The water towers up like a wall, building as it rushes toward me, arching higher, an immense, impossible wall of water.

  I have to run.

  I turn back to shore, but now my legs are covered in coils of seaweed.

  Stuck.

  I kneel and tear with my nails, but the slick coils hold me as I move slower, sinking down. The beach is empty. Everyone gone. My family has disappeared. The wave is very close, a hurtling wall of water yawning above me, and I realize that it’s too late to run, that everything is

  too late.

  * * *

  I woke with a gasp. Soaked in sweat and breathing hard. I used to have the nightmares every night. Thankfully, they had become less frequent over the years. I was already getting out of bed despite the early hour. I knew that trying to return to sleep would be futile.

  I turned the shower to its coldest, setting my teeth as the frigid water hit me in a hard spray. Bringing me back to the world.

  I was in Monterey. Not Bolinas.

  It wasn’t the ocean I had to worry about.

  And my parents hadn’t just disappeared.

  * * *

  Thursday morning had washed away everything from the previous night as cleanly as a Zamboni sweeping over an ice rink. If police or ambulances had been there the night before, there was no trace now. No signs of kidnappings or gangsters or obnoxious tech bros. Just a beautiful morning in paradise. Outside my window, a maple ash spread patulous green branches, filtering sunshine into emerald.

  It was early enough that draperies of fog still clung to the dewy ground, the sun just starting to burn mist off the ocean. I walked to the restaurant, where a breakfast buffet had been set up. I took a plate, poured coffee, and wandered over to the front desk. The sleepy night clerk had been replaced by a new woman. “How’s Ben doing?” I asked. “I know him a bit.”

  The glaze of her professional smile flickered. “That was so horrible. No one understands it. They told us he has a concussion, but he’ll be okay.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “The police say it was an attempted robbery—whoever did it must have thought there was cash in the tollbooth. It’s so scary what people will do.” Her voice dropped as a guest passed. “Can you imagine?”

  “Tell him Nikki said get well soon,” I said, making a mental note to check in with him. Although I knew the four men would have come to the Cypress regardless, I felt responsible.

  The man who called himself Mr. Z had hurt two people—just in the hour I had met him. I was starting to wonder how many others there might be.

  * * *

  The California DMV had something called a Request for Information Form. A service that allowed civilians to file VIN lookups. The problem was that doing so was only allowed in specific, strict circumstances and the process, like everything with the DMV, was anything but fast.

  Charles Miller was different. He had someone at the DMV. For a few hundred dollars, the guy would give Charles everything he could find. In what was undeniably a point in favor of free market capitalism, he actually hurried.

  I gave Charles the VIN. He told me to give him a few hours.

  I still had some time before meeting Susan Johannessen. I left the Cypress and rode over to the Monterey Mercedes-Benz dealership. The showroom floor was scattered with sleek, shiny vehicles painted in lustrous colors. I found my way over to a G-Class. It was imposing, boxy and powerful, the kind of automotive species that would look right at home ferrying a rock star or state dignitary.

  “Did you hear about the restaurant on the moon?”

  I stared at the beanpole in a starched blue dress shirt who had ambled up to me. “What?”

  “Great food, no atmosphere!” He grinned triumphantly. “I’m Jimmy. And you are… ?”

  He stuck out his hand, so I had to shake it. “Nikki.”

  He gestured at the G-Class. “They’re nice, aren’t they? I always say, if you’re gonna spend money, better on a car than at the bar! Thinking of getting one?”

  I shrugged. “Never say never, right?”

  “I wish my son had that attitude with his homework! He always says never! Well, if you got any questions, let me know. You can think of me as your new best friend… at least until you sign the papers!” He winked conspiratorially. In his fifties, with thinning hair, a fake tan, and bad teeth, he had the look of a B-team player, too anxious to make a good impression. From what I could see, he was one of the older guys working the floor. Maybe lapped by generation after generation of hungry, young go-getters who were promoted up the managerial chain or went on to different jobs while he stayed on the floor, working customers with his dad jokes.

  I asked, “If I got one of these, how long could I keep the dealer plates?”

  “State law says ninety days. We’d take care of registration so you’d get your permanent plates in the mail.” He grinned again. “We believe in making life easy for our customers. How’s that for a craaaaazy attitude?”

  “What if I forgot to take the dealer plates off after ninety days?”

  He looked puzzled. “Technically, you could get ticketed, if a cop happened to run the temporary registration. California’s always been laid-back, but they’ve been cracking down more in the last few years. But like I said, we’d mail you the permanent plates.” His smile was back. “You wouldn’t have to do a thing except D-R-I-V-E!”

  “Could I get a new set of dealer plates?”

  Jimmy laughed and scratched his nose. “Not unless one of us was being very naughty and breaking the rules. Any temporary registration is reported to the DMV after each sale. But like I said—you wouldn’t need to, so why worry? Hey, did you hear the rumor about butter?”

  I felt like I was drowning. “I don’t think so?”

  “Well I’m not going to spread it!”

  I thanked Jimmy, accepted his card, and left fast, before he could try another joke.

  * * *

  I got to Cannery Row at eleven thirty. I was habitually early when it came to client meetings. Not really politeness. More that when dealing with strangers, I liked being able to take a look around. Cannery Row was crowded. Everyone seemed hungry. Families laden with bags of saltwater taffy and fudge, people munching hot dogs and tacos, kids waving ice-cream cones, the restaurant bars lining the pier already filled with patrons starting in on their first draft pints and mimosas. To the right of the pier, I could see the Aquarium jutting over the water, a few colorful kayakers visible farther out.

  I bought an iced coffee and newspaper and waited, reading the usual: how the Warriors would do, how bad wildfire season might get, police still investigating the U-Haul deaths, a popular Netflix show had just been renewed for a second season.

  At ten to twelve, I got up to look for Susan. Given the urgency in her voice, I didn’t expect her to be late. For all I knew, she’d been waiting all morning. I wondered about the woman I was about to meet. What it must be like—inheriting big money and the family to go with it, and trying so hard to free oneself of both.

  My family had been taken from me. I’d spent most of my life trying to come to terms with the fact that I’d never have them back. Hard to imagine th
at there were people with the reverse problem. Having too much family was something I knew nothing about.

  I had liked Susan, the single time we’d met. There had been something earnest about her. Something unfeigned. A quality missing in her three brothers. Maybe she hadn’t forged her own way as much as she believed, but she was trying. That counted.

  I checked my watch. Noon, exactly. My coffee was empty. I threw it away and kept walking the pier, scanning for Susan’s face. Maybe she was finishing lunch.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. No Susan.

  I went into a hotel, asked the concierge to use his phone, and dialed my voicemail. Four new messages. None from Susan and all from her brother. My client. Judging by the messages, Martin was becoming increasingly agitated that he couldn’t reach me. No mention of his sister.

  While I had the phone, I called Charles again. “Any word?” I asked.

  He sounded perplexed. “He needs more time. There’s something funny with the VIN. You’re sure you copied it down right?”

  “I’m sure. And it’s urgent, Charles. Really urgent.”

  I put the phone down, went outside, and walked the pier again. Up and down, up and down again. No Susan.

  I returned to the hotel and asked the concierge to borrow the phone once more. I got the phone plus a dirty look and dialed Susan’s Hayes Valley gallery from the card I’d taken when I was there. “Is Susan in?”

  Whoever picked up said, “I’m afraid not. She travels frequently. May I take a message?”

  “That’s okay.” I hung up and tried Susan’s cell phone. The call went straight to voicemail. I tried a second time, with the same result, and then dialed her brother.

  This time Martin picked up immediately. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Nikki.”

  “Where have you been?” He sounded angry, as though I had stood him up on a date.

  “Doing what you hired me to do. There were some complications.”

  “Where are you right now?” he demanded.

  “Monterey.”

  “You haven’t found him?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “There have been some changes,” Martin told me.

  I shifted the phone against my ear. “Changes?”

  “Not over the phone,” he said. “I need you to come back to San Francisco today. I need to see you.”

  I didn’t bother to hide my annoyance. “I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

  “And I’m sort of paying you,” he snapped. “I’m your client—I need to talk to you, and I need to do so today.”

  There was a different voice in my ear. “Excuse me!” The concierge was looking at me with something less than affection. “Are you a guest here?”

  I covered the receiver with a hand. “Sorry. I’ll be off in a second.” I put the phone back to my mouth, conscious that the concierge was frowning openly, arms crossed. “I really need another day down here. One day. It’s important.”

  “And it’s important that I talk to you—today. I insist.”

  A little more than one hundred miles. Two hours up, two hours back. I could meet with my client and then get back here while Charles worked on the VIN. “Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll meet you this afternoon.” I left the hotel, ignoring the concierge’s glare, and took one last look around for Susan. Nothing.

  I think you’d try to save me without even thinking about it.

  Coombs.

  Barely thirty-six hours. That was how much time I had. To find him, and free him. And to find out more about the murky, dysfunctional family that had hired me. I rode north. Sand dunes blurred past on my left, the ocean visible behind the gentle rise and fall of their curves. I throttled up, increasing my speed and leaning into the wind.

  21

  When the driver of the U-Haul got the phone call, he felt sick to his stomach, even though he’d been expecting it. He was staying in a small, furnished room in a double-wide trailer. There were bunk beds in the room, but he was alone, so he napped on the lower and slept on the upper. A place he had stayed before from time to time, even though he had never paid rent or seen a utility bill. It had always just been a place to stay when he was doing a route. Now it felt more like a prison. He had stayed in those, too.

  There was a lounge with a big television that he never turned off, no matter what time of day or night. When his phone rang he had been watching a rerun of a soccer game. The goalie dove, a gloved hand stretching out just enough to glance off the ball and change the trajectory from a certain goal, to nothing at all. As a boy, he had been passionate about one of the teams that was playing. Each victory had filled him with pride; a loss made him feel empty and defeated for days. As a teenager, he had gotten in vicious fights over his team, protecting its honor against anyone who dared say a bad word. He smiled to remember it. Little had he known what emotions like emptiness and defeat really felt like.

  He listened to the voice on the phone tell him where to go. He smoked while he listened and didn’t talk. He had been smoking a lot that week, even more than usual. The trailer was rank with cigarette smoke. The shades were drawn, and beer and tequila bottles were scattered among empty cartons of takeout food.

  He had screwed up. Probably irredeemably. He knew that.

  He smoked his cigarette until he felt the heat of the cherry on his fingers. Then he let the butt fall into a beer bottle. It extinguished with a little hiss. He got up and looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were tired and puffy, his black hair unkempt. He looked a decade older than his twenty-five years. Through most of his life he had been a devoted gym-goer, proud of his muscles, putting in endless hours with free weights, but recently he had stopped caring, and his body looked pallid and unhealthy. He thought of those past days, the nightclubs, the endless money, the girls and parties and drugs. Everything seeming exciting, his success all but guaranteed, a rising star in the Organization. By thirty, he would transition into a management role, where the money would become serious and the day-to-day risk would lessen.

  Dreams. Plans. All as stupid and pathetic as a little boy thinking that his team’s victory meant anything for his own life.

  He showered and put on jeans and a T-shirt. Combed his hair and took a last look around. There was a loaded Smith & Wesson semiautomatic under his pillow. He left it there. What was the point? On his way out, he stopped to tap powder out of a plastic bag. He finished the contents, two small lines, feeling the heroin connect pleasantly with his brain.

  Why not?

  He walked out, not bothering to turn off the lights or lock the door. He wouldn’t finish the soccer game, but it was a rerun and he had seen it before. He knew what happened. His team lost.

  * * *

  The person on the phone had given him an unfamiliar address. The Organization had access to hundreds of places they used for different things, scattered everywhere, some out in the open, some hidden away. He got in a pickup, entered the address into his phone, and drove through miles of farmland before reaching a main road. He didn’t mind the driving. He drove for a living. He’d spent untold thousands of hours behind the wheel. The heroin and straight lines of the road lulled him, made him feel like he was bumping pleasantly along a train track, comfortable and secure. He lit a cigarette and rolled his window down, letting his left arm drag out the side. The fresh air felt good against his skin.

  His phone guided him away from the farmland and into an industrial neighborhood. Chimneys coughing out black smoke, eighteen-wheelers bumping along over uneven streets, harsh chemical smells, loading bays leading into wide, flat buildings. His ears were filled with the sounds of jackhammers and beeping forklifts.

  He parked the truck on the same block as the address he had been given and got out. A couple of rough-looking men walked past, their eyes challenging him. He met their gaze, gave a hard stare back until they shrank away. He tried to use the moment to feel anything, adrenaline, fear, aggression. But there was nothing. He wa
s empty.

  The address was a warehouse with an olive-painted steel door to one side of a shuttered loading bay. There was a buzzer next to the door. He took a final look out at the street and buzzed. The door clicked open and then closed behind him.

  For a moment, he thought he was alone. Then a big man stepped into the light and nodded at him. He lit a cigarette, but made no effort to speak as the big man patted him down. He had been patted down many times before. It didn’t bother him any more than a handshake. The heroin buzzed in his head, adding strange little glimmers to his vision. The cigarette felt good and he took long, deep drags, barely feeling the strong hands pressing along his body.

  He followed the big man into an immense space, maybe twenty meters by thirty. In the center of the room was a long wooden table, empty except for a half-full bottle of tequila, three small glasses, and a bolt-action hunting rifle. There were three chairs on the opposite side of the table, facing him. Three men sat in the chairs. A fourth man lay on the cement floor, close to where he stood. At first, he didn’t know if the fourth man was alive, but he saw the chest rising and falling with labored breaths. It took him a few seconds to recognize his partner from the route. He had liked his partner well enough. They had spent hundreds of hours in small, enclosed spaces, cars and truck cabs and motel rooms. When you had spent that much time with someone you either liked them okay, or ended up killing them. In the past, he had done both. He knew the sound of his partner’s snores, the smell of his breath, what he sounded like when he was with a woman, the names of his three children, his favorite foods.