Infidel

by Steve Gannon

  Feeling his breathing slowing and his blood-thickened muscles beginning to relax, Kane glanced back at his house, checking to see whether anyone else had risen. Although disappointed that no lights were yet burning, he smiled as he inspected the structure that had been his home for the past eighteen years.

  Viewed from the deck, it seemed an organic part of its environment, with towering palms flanking both sides, flowering bougainvillea draping a large section of roof and upper balcony, and lush beds of ice plant and aloe anchoring its failing foundation to the sand. Built in the early thirties, the ancient house sat on a small Malibu cove guarding the mouth of Las Flores Canyon, located along the northernmost crescent of Santa Monica Bay. Catheryn’s mother, who had spent most of her childhood summers there in the late thirties, had inherited the old cottage and subsequently bestowed it on her daughter and Kane as a wedding present.

  Over the years the ramshackle structure had metamorphosed to accommodate their growing family, with a porch enclosed as a nursery for Tommy, rooms later added for Travis and Allison, and the defunct cistern platform atop the roof converted to a “tree house” bedroom for Nate, the youngest. Despite its scars and imperfections—termite-ridden beams, sadly sagging rafters, antiquated plumbing and wiring, and countless bootlegged additions and temporary fixes that time had lent the air of permanence—the old house was a living, if dilapidated, monument to Kane’s family, embodying years of growth and change forever entangled in the milestones of their lives.

  As Kane stood enjoying the first weak rays of the sun, he spotted seven Mexican brown pelicans moving in silent unison over the ocean, skimming the water in a loose V and lifting effortlessly on currents of air gusting off the waves. He followed their progress down the beach, noting that the Santa Ana winds from the desert had already begun picking up, delaying the transparent green walls of water on their march to the shore and whipping plumes of spray seaward from their paper-thin crests. The intermittent breeze felt warm and alive on his skin, vibrant as an animal’s breath. It gusted briefly, stopped, then began again, bringing with it the smell of sage and the promise of another sizzling, smogless day. The press of traffic driving south into the city would increase later on; for now the sound of commuters on Pacific Coast Highway, hidden behind the single row of houses lining the beach, was barely audible, and the morning belonged to the gulls and pelicans and terns, an occasional dog padding up the clean slate of sand left by a receding tide, and Kane.

  A moment later Sam, the family’s white-muzzled Labrador retriever, scrabbled slowly down the stairs onto the deck. “Morning, pup,” Kane greeted him when he arrived, regretfully noticing that the old dog’s arthritic gait seemed to be getting worse. “Feel like a swim?”

  As if to say, “No, thanks,” Sam thumped his tail and sat, following with his eyes as Kane started for the beach. When his master reached the seawall, the old dog groaned in resignation and hobbled after him. Though the sand on the other side lay only a few feet down, Kane carefully lifted him over. Then, leaving him there, Kane retreated to the deck, returning minutes later carrying a pair of swim goggles and a small buoy tied to a coiled length of polypropylene line.

  Sam followed him to the ocean’s edge but refused to go in. “Come on, boy. It’ll loosen you up,” Kane coaxed.

  Again, Sam balked.

  Finally giving up, Kane waded into the water, glancing back at the shoreline once he had made it past the break of a three-foot swell. Sam’s black shape still sat outlined against the sand, his golden eyes watching wistfully.

  Although by then the air temperature had risen to the mid-seventies, the water surging around Kane’s torso felt as cold as January in Idaho. Shivering, he spit into his goggles, slipped them on, and dived under the next wave. A dozen powerful strokes carried him past the shoreline turbulence, and before long he could make out broad fields of kelp covering intermittent rock shoals twenty feet down, the sand in between rippled to a washboard appearance by onshore currents. With the end of the buoy rope looped over his shoulder, he continued on, warming a bit by the time he reached a point about two hundred yards from the beach. There, treading water, he adjusted his position by aligning land-side reference points, preparing to initiate his search.

  The depth of the ocean had now increased to over thirty-five feet. Satisfied with his position, Kane took a deep breath and dived, descending through the cool green water. He cleared his ears halfway to the bottom, then leveled off and began working his way up-current, his eyes studying the silent world beneath. Oblique shafts of sunlight filtered down from above, shifting with the undulating surface and seeming to dance with the swaying kelp and sea grass on the ocean floor. As he passed overhead, Kane spotted a bright-orange garibaldi darting for the protection of a rocky crevice, while a school of torpedo-shaped calico bass, curious about the intruder in their midst, watched from a safe distance with cold, predatory eyes.

  Kane continued to work the area for the next twenty minutes, searching in a grid pattern and taking bearings each time he rose to the surface. At last, after numerous dives, he saw it: the wheel.

  Four feet in diameter and weighing over five hundred pounds, the gigantic chunk of iron lay in forty feet of water, its lower third covered with sand, the central hole serendipitously still accessible. Kane hovered a body’s length above it, inspecting the rusty remnant. He supposed that the old train wheel—scrap from a long-forgotten railroad spur that years ago had run up the coast—had once been used for some erstwhile mooring. Whatever its provenance, he knew it would provide a massive, unyielding anchor for a project he had been planning for years.

  Grinning with excitement, Kane rose to the surface, took several breaths, then dived again and attempted to thread the buoy rope through the wheel’s axle hole. He found the passage blocked with sand. Three dives later he still hadn’t secured the line, for each time he rose, the ocean surge refilled the hole, replacing the sand he’d laboriously scooped out on the previous attempt. Finally staying down until he thought his lungs would burst, he managed to clear the opening. Realizing he was running out of time, he raced to jam through the buoy rope.

  As a red haze began to dim his vision, he got it through. Forcing himself to stay down a few more agonizing seconds, he tied it off with cold-thickened fingers. Then, blood pounding in his ears, he kicked with all his strength for the surface, taking an explosive, gasping breath as he burst into the morning sunlight.

  Rising and falling on the incoming swells, Kane rested briefly. After he had caught his breath, he set off for shore, hammering through wind and current on the return trip. When he finally stepped from the water, he found Sam still waiting for him on the sand, faithfully maintaining his solitary vigil.

  Following a cold shower on the outside deck, Kane toweled himself dry and entered the house. He smiled as he mounted the stairs, considering how best to rouse his sleeping children. “Reveille, troops,” he bellowed upon reaching the top landing, choosing an old standby. “Everybody on the deck for lineup in ten minutes!”

  Silence. Then a plaintive cry from Nate’s loft above the entry: “Dad, it’s hardly light out yet.”

  “Ten minutes, kid,” Kane warned. “And just in case you’re considering catching some extra winks, don’t think I won’t climb up there,” he added with a chuckle. “Oh, by the way . . . happy birthday.”

  Next he strode to his daughter Allison’s room and pounded on her door. “Up and at ’em, petunia. Let’s go!” Without awaiting a response he moved to Tommy and Travis’s room, throwing open their door and flipping on the light. “That goes for you two debutantes, too.”

  “C’mon, Dad,” Tommy answered sleepily. “This is supposed to be summer vacation.”

  “Tough. I want every skinny butt out on the deck pronto. You now have nine minutes.”

  “Does that go for Mom’s skinny butt, too?” Allison called from the safety of her bedroom.

  “Don’t push it, Allison. I may not be around much the next couple days, and ther
e are a few things I want to discuss with you kids before I leave. You now have eight and a half minutes.”

  With that, Kane turned crisply on his heel and retreated into the house. Shortly afterward the children heard the sound of Charlie Daniels blasting from the living room, followed by the dark, earthy aroma of brewing coffee. Resentfully, they started to dress.

  By the time they reached the deck below, Kane had changed into his work clothes: white shirt and tie, slacks, and a nine-millimeter Beretta automatic holstered on his right hip. He had his sleeves rolled up, exposing a thicket of curly reddish hair covering his massive forearms, and he was standing with his back to the house, staring at the waves and sipping a steaming mug of coffee. Allison moved quietly to a large swing suspended from the upper balcony. Nate joined her. Travis sat on the steps leading onto the house. Tommy remained standing. Sam, the last one out, glanced up at Nate, then sank down beside the swing.

  Kane took his time draining the last of his coffee. Then, clearing his throat, he turned and regarded his children, fixing them in his gaze to impress upon each the importance of his intended communication. “Okay, rookies, listen up,” he began, satisfied he had secured their undivided attention. “I can see you’re wondering why the ol’ dad here’s decided to schedule a little quality time with the squad this morning, so I won’t keep you in the dark any longer. There are a couple of reasons, but let’s get the main one out of the way first. Lately I’ve been tied up at work more than I would like, and unable to provide adequate paternal supervision—especially considering how much free time you’ve all got on your hands now that school’s out. That’s gonna change.”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Allison groaned.

  Cracking his knuckles, Kane glared at her, then continued. “First off, if you think this summer is going to be a time of lying around munchin’ bonbons and improving your tans, you’re mistaken.”

  “Aw, Dad,” Tommy complained. “Why can’t we just—”

  “Tom, when school let out, I gave you two weeks to find a job,” Kane interrupted. “There’s been no progress whatsoever in that department, has there?”

  “Uh, no, sir.”

  Kane scowled. “I thought not. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s seeing people farting their lives away—especially if those people happen to be Kanes. Now, the way I look at it, every second of so-called vacation time not spent sleeping, eating, or crappin’ should be devoted to bettering yourselves, policing the premises, helping your mother, and earning money for college. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

  Sensing their father’s seriousness, the children shook their heads.

  “Speak up!”

  “No, sir!” they answered as one.

  “Good. You, Tom,” Kane continued, again addressing his oldest, “probably think you’re hot stuff because you got a football scholarship to the University of Arizona. Now, I’ll admit playing for the Wildcats ain’t bad, but with your talent you could have made any college team in the country. Why didn’t you? I’ll tell you why. It’s because you never made the decision to totally commit. As usual, you just sailed along doing barely enough to stay ahead of the pack. Now you figure to cruise through the summer—lay back till you leave, surf a little, do some rock climbing. Am I right?”

  “No, sir,” Tommy responded.

  “What, then?”

  “He was planning on spending the summer chewing the buttons off Christy’s blouse,” Allison spoke up.

  “Quiet, Allison. Tom, as you’ve obviously failed to come up with some constructive endeavor, I’ve taken the liberty of getting you a job myself.”

  “But, Dad, I—”

  “No, buts. Tony Stewart, an old buddy of mine from the department, is in the contracting business now. He’s framing a bunch of houses up near Paradise Cove. You start Monday morning at seven. If I can, I’ll drop you off on my way to work. Otherwise, your mom will take you.” Kane shifted his gaze to Travis. “You’re going to be working there too, kid,” he added.

  “What about piano practice?” Travis asked. “This summer Mom wants me to—”

  “Do it afterward. A little job experience won’t hurt you. Hell, it’ll probably get you a lot further in life than tickling the ivories. Is this going to be a problem?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Is it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.” Kane turned to his youngest. “Nate, have you been giving Sam his pills like you’re supposed to?” he asked, referring to the Butazolidin tablets the vet had prescribed for the dog’s arthritis.

  “I . . . I forgot yesterday,” said Nate, his cheeks flushing to nearly the color of his curly red hair.

  “You’ve been forgetting more than yesterday. That’s the kind of attitude I’m talking about here. Sam could barely walk this morning.”

  “I won’t forget anymore,” Nate promised.

  “You’d better not,” said Kane. Then, to his daughter, “Allison, you’ve been dying to shoot off your mouth, so here’s your chance. What’s your plan for the summer?”

  “Well, Dad, now that I hear what you’ve lined up for the boys, I think I’d like to bend nails with them, too. You know, hang out on the job and drive all those sweaty young carpenters wild . . .”

  “Make ’em puke is more like it,” snickered Nate.

  “Shut up, flea, before I accidentally step on you.”

  “Both of you close your yaps or I’ll do it for you,” Kane ordered. “Allison, as both you and Nate are too young to hold down real jobs, your duty’s going to be to assist your mother in any activity she designates. In addition, I want you to police the beach in front of the house daily—all the way to the water. That means bottles, Styrofoam, tar, seaweed, dog turds, and dead surfers. If it ain’t sand, I don’t want to see it. We have the Fourth of July party coming up in two weeks, and I’m gonna be checking. Which reminds me—all of you start collecting driftwood for a bonfire. After the fireworks show we’re going to put together a blaze that’ll give those peckerwoods in Santa Monica something to talk about.” Kane paused, mentally reviewing his points. Satisfied he had left nothing out, he said, “Okay, that’s the duty roster for the summer. Any questions?”

  Tommy shifted uneasily. “What about climbing? Trav and I were figuring . . . I mean, we had that trip planned to Mineral King before I leave for Arizona, and—”

  “Negative. I already told you. Climbing’s out.”

  “C’mon, Dad, that’s not fair. Last summer you said we could attempt that wall on Needleham Mountain.”

  “That was before you got your slot on the U of A football squad. If you want to do some bouldering or a few easy scrambles out at Joshua Tree or Idyllwild, fine. But that’s it. I can’t chance your getting injured before the season starts.”

  “The trip’s definitely off?” asked Travis.

  “The climbing part, anyway. If we go, it’ll be to backpack only.”

  Tommy stubbornly shook his head. “Dad, you said—”

  “Is that understood?”

  “Aw, Dad . . .”

  “Tom, is that understood?”

  Tommy nodded reluctantly. “No climbing.”

  Kane paused again, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. “Nobody else wants to whine? Good, because I have a couple more points to cover. But first, let me ask you all a question: What’s the most important thing about being a Kane?”

  The children’s response was automatic. “Kanes stand together, no matter what.”

  “Right. So when it comes to this summer’s assignments, if one of you screws up, you’re all in trouble—no matter what. Tom, your being the oldest, I expect you to make sure there’s no slacking off in my absence.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” said Tommy dryly. “I’ll do my best to fill your size thirteens.”

  “You do that,” said Kane. He started to say something more, then stopped, glancing up as a window opened on the second floor.

  “Dan,
Arnie’s here,” Catheryn’s voice floated down. “He says to come on up when you’re done haranguing the children. I can get breakfast going if you have time.”

  Kane glanced at his watch. “Tell him I’ll be right there, Kate,” he yelled back. “But hold off on the grub. Arnie and I will grab something on the road.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Kane answered. Then, turning back to his children, he quickly concluded his talk. “Now, the last thing I want to cover this morning is asking you to join me in wishing your brother Nate congratulations on his birthday,” he said, placing his hand on his youngest’s shoulder. “He turns nine today, and as this is his last year in single digits, I want you all to show him special consideration. That includes you, Allison.”

  “Special consideration?” Allison moaned, clutching her throat. “Anything but that.”

  Ignoring his daughter’s theatrics, Kane lowered his voice and spoke directly to Nate. “This investigation I’m on right now is keeping me pretty busy,” he said softly. “I’ll try, but there’s a good chance I won’t be attending your party tonight, so I’ll say it now, just in case. Happy birthday, kid. With a little luck I may be off tomorrow, and if so, I have something special planned. Keep the day open just in case, all right?”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “That goes for the rest of you, too,” Kane added, turning back to the others. “Any more questions? No? Then get moving.”

  Chapter 2

  By nine that morning, although the Santa Ana winds were just beginning their adiabatic rush to the sea in earnest, the temperature had already risen into the nineties. Since the beginning of the week, searing gusts from the desert had rocketed the mercury to triple digits, sending waves of shimmering, superheated air rising from the pavement and baking the streets and denizens of Los Angeles alike into a torpor. Not surprisingly, the effect on the population had followed classic and predictable trends. Like similar winds throughout the world—the Mediterranean sirocco, the Chinooks of the eastern Rockies, and Africa’s dust-laden, suffocating simoom—the Santa Anas blasting across southern California had sent the murder rate in the City of Angels soaring.