Smoke

by Joe Ide

  “I’m sorry for the intrusion,” she began.

  “Call the sheriff and tell him about Crowe,” he said, bitterly. “Get out your phone and do it right now.”

  “I can’t, Mr. Quintabe. I have to—”

  “I don’t care. Call him.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking. You don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want to understand,” Isaiah replied. He could barely keep from screaming at her. “Call him right now or I’ll call him myself, and if I do it I’ll turn Billy in and give you up too.” He glared at her and she glared back. She got out her phone.

  “I’m calling him, okay?” She was incensed. He didn’t care.

  “And after you’re done? You and Billy get out of my house. I don’t care what you do or where you go. Just get out.”

  Sheriff Cannon was at his desk, ready to go home. It had been a long, irritating day. Mrs. Landy had called and said she’d had a break-in. She didn’t. An errant baseball had broken her window. George Alpin called and said kids from the high school were smoking weed in the park. Cannon didn’t care, but he was up for reelection. He went out there and told the kids to take it indoors. Max Grabie had dementia and wandered away from home. Cannon found him in the drugstore, standing in the cold and flu aisle looking around like he’d landed on Pluto. Cannon’s daughter fell down and bruised her shoulder. Cannon knew she was okay, but Marcie insisted they take her to the emergency room. And Billy. That stupid kid. Gretta kept calling and asking what was happening and if the department was doing anything to find her son. Cannon didn’t care if her son had been eaten by a cougar. He’d had enough of Billy’s bullshit.

  Loretta stuck her head in the office. “Call for you. She says it’s urgent.”

  He picked up the phone. “This is Sheriff Cannon.”

  “Hello, Sheriff. I have something to report.” A young woman’s voice.

  “Your name?”

  “I’d rather not say, but it’s important.”

  “Okay. Go ahead,” Cannon said.

  The young woman, who sounded rational, told him a long story about her sister being murdered by AMSAK. She said AMSAK was a man named William Crowe, and he was in Coronado Springs. Cannon was skeptical. She sounded reasonable, but lots of crackpots sound reasonable.

  “So you think this Crowe is the killer or the police do?” he said.

  “He’s on their short list of suspects.”

  Cannon’s pulse took a bump. “How would you know that? That information is confidential.”

  “I have the police files.”

  “The police files? Where did you get them?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “If that’s true, you’re in a lot of trouble, young lady,” Cannon said.

  “I accept that, Sheriff,” the woman replied. “But there’s a serial killer in your town, and it’s your responsibility to arrest him.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll decide what I’m responsible for,” he said. This was beyond far-fetched. He didn’t believe this girl had the police files; there was no way to access them. She was making this up and for some reason she was fixated on somebody named William Crowe. He was probably an ex-boyfriend or it was a mistaken identity or her sister was murdered by somebody else or her sister was alive or maybe she had no sister. Something occurred to him.

  “Are you by any chance a friend of Billy Sorensen?”

  “Yes, I am. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “Well, you have a nice day, miss,” Cannon said. She was still talking when he ended the call. He started to get up from his desk but sat back down again. What if she wasn’t a crackpot? What if she was right? Due diligence, asshole. This kind of crap always comes back to bite you. He looked up Crowe’s sheet. He was actually a suspected serial killer. Could the girl’s story be true? He called the local motels. No one named William Crowe or anyone of his description had checked in. He called Crowe’s parole officer.

  “Harrison Pearce,” Pearce said.

  “Hi. I’m Ron Cannon, the sheriff over in Coronado Springs. I’m wondering if you could do me a favor.”

  “Sure,” Pearce said, a little too eagerly. Maybe talking to a real police officer was exciting. “How can I help you?”

  “Could you check out one of your clients for me? His name is William Crowe. I heard he was in my town.”

  “What a coincidence.” Pearce chuckled. “I saw him just this morning. He was at work, right where he was supposed to be. I searched him too. The most dangerous thing on him was some loose change.” He chuckled again. “Tell you the truth, I was almost sure Crowe would screw up, but I was wrong. He’s been straight as an arrow.”

  That was what Cannon wanted to hear. Pearce’s chuckle sounded forced, but he had confirmed Cannon’s suspicion. The girl was a crackpot.

  “Okay, Mr. Pearce, I appreciate your help.”

  “My pleasure, Sheriff, call me anytime.”

  Crowe watched Ava come out of her room at the Treeline. She’d ditched the blue cap, and her hair was wet. She’d taken a shower. Christ, he wished he’d been there. He followed her to an outlying neighborhood. She stopped in front of a house. She seemed to be confused about the address. Crowe hastily parked and got out of the car. If she was on foot, he would be too. Years of following women around had taught him a few things. She was puzzled a moment, then walked around the side of the house. Crowe moved quickly, crouched, staying behind her. She crossed the backyard toward a tiny guest house, deep woods behind it. She knocked on the door. A black guy answered. They talked for a moment, the black guy not happy to see her. He let her in.

  Crowe was worried. Pearce texted him. Sheriff Cannon had called. He wanted to know Crowe’s whereabouts. This girl had already involved the cops. He had to shut her up. Killing her was easy enough, but now there was the black guy. He couldn’t do this alone.

  “Yeah, what do you want?” Warren said. That’s how he answered the phone. If he knew God was calling he’d say the same thing.

  “We’re being followed,” Crowe said.

  “We?”

  “I’m here in Coronado Springs,” Crowe added. Warren didn’t say a thing. “I’m not here to hurt you or take you back,” Crowe said. “I’m here to protect us. Hannah Bouchard’s sister followed me here from Sacramento. She needs to be gone.”

  “What’s this gotta do with me?” Warren said.

  “If she’s onto me, she’s onto you. My parole officer got a call from the sheriff. The cops are involved. Do you want to go back to Quentin, Warren? We have to take her out.”

  “I’ll think about it.” That was Warren’s way of saying fuck you. When he’s like this you can’t push. You have to lead.

  “Remember the girl two doors down from you at the motel?” Crowe said. “She was getting things out of her trunk. That’s Hannah Bouchard’s sister. Juicy, huh? Perky tits, right?”

  “You think I’m gonna fall for that? I’ve had enough of your bullshit.”

  “It’s not bullshit, I saw her five minutes ago.” Crowe’s voice got low and husky. “She’s in a guest house, Warren. I’m looking at it right now. She’s in there alone, and there’s nobody around. Did you hear me? There’s nobody around. You can do anything you want. Think about it, Warren. You can do anything you want.” He let that hang in the air.

  Warren said, “Come pick me up.”

  Isaiah was homesick. He wanted desperately to see Grace, Dodson, TK and Deronda. He wanted to see Mrs. Marquez, Mo the wino and Beaumont, now dead and gone. He missed Verna and her croissants made from warm snowflakes and a tub of butter. He missed the hood, depressing as it was. That was his home, where he’d lived for twenty-nine years. He was alone, lonely and depressed, the PTSD pulling him further and further into the abyss.

  He had to leave, get out of Coronado Springs. He’d go find Grace and to hell with the rest. It was suddenly urgent. He rushed into the bedroom, found his duffel and began stuffing his clothes. He felt afraid, like he was coming a
part, like his chest was splitting. A panic attack. “I’ve got to get out, I’ve got to get out!” he shouted. Fuck clothes. He shoved the duffel aside and patted his pockets, no car keys. He looked around. Not on top of the dresser, not on the floor, not on the bedside table. He ran into the living room. He swept everything off the coffee table and flung the cushions off the couch. “Where are my fucking keys? Goddammit, where are they?”

  He stormed into the kitchen. No keys. Mindlessly, he opened drawers and cupboards and slammed them shut. He was sweating and trembling. The keys were his escape from this town, from PTSD. “Where are they? WHERE ARE MY FUCKING KEYS?” His phone buzzed. It was stuck in his pocket sideways, and he couldn’t get it out. “Come on, come onnn! Fucking shit! Fucking shit!” He couldn’t stand it anymore. He put a hand over his face and sobbed. “I have to go, I have to go…” The phone kept buzzing. And buzzing. He screamed, tore it out of his pocket, rearing back to throw it against the wall. He stopped. The caller ID said GRACE.

  “Grace?”

  She was crying. “Why didn’t you call me, you son of a bitch! What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? I’ve been waiting to hear from you! Why didn’t you call me? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m an idiot,” he breathed.

  “Yes, you are. Goddamn you, Isaiah!”

  “Yes, goddamn me.”

  They were silent a moment. In a small voice she said, “How are you?”

  “I’m okay, I’m fine.” Saying I miss you seemed so obvious it was moronic. She told him about living with Deronda and working at the food truck and how it was great and how much she loved Janeel. She sounded like she was holding something back. She choked up.

  “I have my own show, Isaiah. Just me and nobody else.” He felt her pride, her relief, her happiness.

  His voice cracked. “That’s amazing…I’m so…I’m so happy for…” His words were so inadequate he was ashamed of them. He could feel Grace beaming through the phone, and he hoped she could feel him too. She was in Ojai for the opening. She’d be there a day and take off the next morning.

  “I can’t wait!” she said.

  “Me either.”

  He decided not to tell her about the PTSD or Billy and Ava or William Crowe and Sheriff Cannon. He talked about the drive here. The forest, the mountains, Lake Tahoe, Rush Creek, the decision to stop at Coronado Springs, the Ortegas and their daughters.

  “I’m not going to be IQ anymore. I’m done,” he said.

  “I’m so glad! Oh, my God, I’ve been waiting so long to hear that.” A pause, then, “You’re not okay, are you?”

  “No, I’m good. I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not. I can hear it in your voice. Something’s wrong, I know it is. You’re in danger, aren’t you? You’re either chasing someone or they’re chasing you. If you don’t want to be IQ anymore, you’re off to a terrible start.” He had no answer. She added, “If you get killed before I see you I’ll kill you again.”

  “I’ll help you,” he said.

  There was silence instead of I love yous. They said their goodbyes and the call ended. He sat down. The kitchen felt empty, like people had been there and now they were gone. He should have told her not to come. He had some time. She was leaving for Coronado Springs the day after tomorrow. If Crowe and Warren hadn’t left or been arrested by then, he’d meet Grace somewhere else, Tahoe maybe. He grinned. He was going to see her! Be with her! He was thirsty. His throat was dry from screaming.

  Isaiah’s garage was dim and cool, milky windows, low ceiling, smelling of dust, concrete and cardboard. Billy was lying on the cot, talking to Gretta on the phone. She’d called ten times so he finally answered.

  “Are you all right?” she said.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Tell me where you are, and I’ll pick you up.” Billy could hear it plain as day. It was the last thing she wanted to do.

  “No, I’m busy,” he said. Gretta breathed a familiar sigh, equal parts disappointment, resentment and exasperation. They had an unwritten rule. Billy didn’t talk about what he was doing, thinking or believing, and his mother didn’t ask.

  “You have to go back to the hospital,” Gretta said. This isn’t good for you. Your stress level is probably sky-high and you know what happens—”

  “Yes, I know what happens,” Billy said, his voice hardening.

  “The sheriff is looking for you. He called me.”

  “I don’t care, Mom. What I’m doing is important and I’m sorry if I make you look bad in front of the whole town.”

  “I said that once Billy, and I was upset,” Gretta said, Billy noting she didn’t add I didn’t mean it or I’m sorry. Silence and another sigh. “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

  “Yeah, me neither,” Billy said, and he ended the call. It was pointless trying to mend fences. The bond between them was too far gone. All they did was fight because it was all about winning the argument, not coming together. There was nothing left but contempt. He was supposed to go camping with Gretta and Irene, do the happy family thing. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Gretta was right about the stress, though. It was spilling over the dam and roaring down the riverbed. He closed his eyes and tried to even out his breathing. Easy, Billy, come on, stay in control, stay in control, you’re all right, everything is fine.

  “Billy?” a voice said. It was Ava. He scrambled off the cot.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah,” she said with a smile. “Holy shit.”

  Ava was no longer radiant. Everything about her was weary and tense and underneath it all, a scalding hatred that clouded her eyes and banished happiness forever. You’re going to come through for her no matter what, Billy. She walked over and hugged him and cried into his shoulder. All the years you dreamed about her, and here she was with her arms around you. When, if ever, did your dreams really come true?

  Their first conversation was more awkward pauses and perfunctory questions than anything else. What have you been doing? Are you working now? Do you remember so and so? Billy said he was a student at Golden State University. He was home on semester break. He said that he worked as a lab assistant in a genetics research program. Ava seemed uncomfortable, restless, nodding frequently. It was hard talking in a garage so they went outside and sat on two white plastic chairs.

  “Thank you for everything, Billy.” She put her hand on his. Aside from his burning face and thumping heart, all he could feel was her skin on his. “Before we get into this, I know about your problems.”

  “Oh, that,” he said, pawing the air. “It’s not as bad as they make it out to be.” He’d never been as humiliated as he was right now. Not only did she know his pitiful history, he’d lied about it.

  “I don’t care, Billy. I really don’t,” Ava said. “I know what kind of a person you are and that’s all that matters.”

  He got up and turned away from her, his fists clenched at his sides. “God, I’m such a loser!”

  She was suddenly annoyed. “Billy, one of the things I really don’t like is when somebody feels sorry for themselves.”

  “I’m not.” He sulked.

  She took a deep, preparatory breath. “This thing we’re doing? I’m going to go on by myself.” He couldn’t believe it. He was as hurt as he was outraged.

  “Go on by yourself? You can’t!”

  “You’re a liability, Billy. The police are looking for you.”

  “Who told you?” Billy said, angrily. “Isaiah?”

  “It was on the radio.”

  “Shit.”

  Ava went on. “Isaiah made me call Cannon. I told him about Crowe, but he didn’t believe me. I think he’s preoccupied looking for you. If we’re together, I’ll be caught too. I can’t let that happen. Do you understand?”

  “Sure I do.” He backed away from her. “The nutcase from Schizo Central might go bananas and mess things up. Well, go on then! Do what you want!”

  He stormed away, heading for th
e trees. There was a picket fence between the garage and the next house over. He caught a glimpse of two men standing still, like a freeze frame, like they were caught off guard. Ordinarily, he would have stopped and questioned them, but he was too pissed off. He kept going and felt the temperature change as the dark canopy of trees fell over him.

  “Who am I anyway?” he muttered. “I only brought her into it in the first place. She’d be nowhere without me. She’d be back in Sacramento doing nothing, that’s what.” He heard her call out.

  “Billy, wait!” She was coming after him. Serves her right. He slowed his pace.

  Isaiah was at his kitchen window, drinking a glass of water. The lost keys seemed silly now. He was going to see Grace. The first thing he had to do was get Billy and Ava the fuck out of here. Then he had to clean up the place, get some new bedding, fill the fridge with her favorite foods, and detail the Mustang. He saw Billy in the yard, pissed off, charging into the woods, Ava going after him. What a mess. Their mess. He was done.

  Then two men appeared from the neighboring yard. They kicked and stomped their way over the picket fence, walking fast and stiff legged, like running would be too obvious. The bigger one had a big knife in a sheath and a gun. Isaiah recognized him from his mugshot. It was Crowe. The second man had an identical knife. They were excited, eager, laughing as they disappeared into the woods.

  Isaiah raced into the living room and grabbed the collapsible baton off the coffee table. Then he ran out of the house and into the woods. He stopped. There was a path that forked right and left. Everybody who lived on the street used the path as a shortcut; to picnic spots, drinking spots, places to make out, or just for a walk in the woods. There were a lot of footprints. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted as loud as he could. “Billy! Ava! Crowe’s here! Run!” He shouted it several times, but there was no way to know if they’d heard him. Shut up and go to work, Isaiah.