Gun Games

by Faye Kellerman

  Yasmine swallowed back tears. “I love you, Gabriel.”

  Gabe had turned somber. “I love you, too, Yasmine.” Sohala whisked her away. “Ba-bye,” he said to the empty doorway. Wet rills coursed down his cheeks. “Well, that totally sucked.”

  Rina sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I am.”

  Silence. Then Nick said, “I’ll come visit you once you’re out of the hospital.”

  Gabe was still staring in space. “I’m moving to Nevada, remember.”

  Nick turned to Rina. “Realistically, how long will that be?”

  “I don’t know, Nick. It’s up to the lieutenant, and it’s also up to Gabe’s father.”

  Nick nodded. “If need be, Gabriel, I’ll fly up every couple of weeks and give you a lesson.”

  Rina said, “That would be fantastic.”

  “If I’m still alive,” Gabe said.

  “Stop talking like that,” Nick said. “I’m really sorry for what happened, but let’s not forget the bigger picture. You’re alive, your hands seemed unscathed, and you’ve still been blessed with enormous talent.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Nick patted his head. “I’ll see you before you go to Nevada. Take care of yourself, Romeo.”

  As Nick left the hospital room, Gabe said, “Yeah, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” He looked at Rina. “How much can I pay you to do a Kevorkian?”

  She kissed his forehead. It was hot and sweaty. He probably had a fever. “You look a little beat. Why don’t you try to sleep?”

  “You know when my dad’s coming down?”

  “No, sorry, I don’t know. I’ll call if you want.”

  “Nah.” His eyes burned. “Don’t bother. He’ll come when he comes.” He exhaled, and then winced. He squeezed her hand. “A nap doesn’t sound so bad. Will you wait here while I sleep?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re the nicest person on earth.”

  “Ask my kids about me when they were growing up. I’m sure you’d get a different perspective. But thank you for the compliment.” She kissed his forehead again. “Take a little rest, okay.”

  His eyes were already closed when he nodded to her. Alone in his head, there were so many things to think about. It was nice that drugs didn’t give him the option of staying awake.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  According to the docket, the arraignments, originally scheduled at around six, were now slated to take place around eight. Marge sat in the commissary at an isolated corner table, eating a Greek salad with little enthusiasm. Twenty minutes later, Nurit Luke joined her, coffee cup in hand. Nurit was five eleven, as thin as a stork. She had on her signature color—hot pink—this time from a jacket worn over black pants. Her accessories were big and chunky. She had flaming red hair, dark eyes, and she wore fire engine red lipstick.

  “Where’d you get that?” Nurit was referring to Marge’s salad.

  “I think they still have a couple left, but I’m done with this if you want it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.” Marge handed the plastic container to the lawyer. “Help yourself. I’m going to get some coffee. You want a refill?”

  “Thanks. That would be great.”

  When Marge returned, Nurit was spearing the last bits of wilted lettuce. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Would you like me to get you something else?”

  “No, this is perfect.” She took the cup of coffee. “Thanks for the offer.”

  Marge sat and sipped. The brew tasted burnt.

  Nurit said, “Want to go over all the charges so we’re on the same page?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “The three seventeen-year-olds . . . Hold on.” Nurit began rooting around her briefcase. “JJ Little, Darla Holbein, and Nate Asaroff . . . you know we could have tried them as adults.”

  “They should all do jail time, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  “I get it. I’m just saying . . .” Nurit looked at her notes. “I just spoke to Jack Leandro. They’ve been released personal recognizance to their parents. The girl, Darla Holbein, is getting off with three thousand hours of community service in her church in Africa and an additional thousand hours in the United States after attending rehab in exchange for testimony against Cameron Cole. Darla can testify that it was Cameron’s idea to initiate the kidnapping. After she’s done her service, her records will be sealed and she’s free.”

  Marge nodded.

  “For the other two minor boys, I’m pushing for some jail time in a juvenile facility and then three years of probation.”

  “How much time?”

  “Sixty days. They have to finish high school anyway.”

  “Is Bell and Wakefield offering them a diploma?”

  “That’s part of the deal: that the three kids will be allowed to receive diplomas as soon as they pass their finals in exchange for a gag order. None of them are allowed to talk about anything. The school just wants them out with minimum disruption.”

  “And the lawyers have agreed to jail time?”

  “Not to the sixty days, no. I’m willing to halve the sentence. They’ll go for that. But I’m going to insist on probation plus five thousand hours of community service. After they’ve given testimony for the State in the trials of the three others—should a trial be necessary—and after they’ve complete their mandated sentences, their criminal records will be sealed and they can walk away and pretend this never happened.”

  Marge nodded.

  “Too easy if you ask me. Especially for Darla. She may not have initiated the kidnapping, but she didn’t try to talk Cameron out of it.”

  “I know. But she’ll be a credible witness against Cameron.”

  “Like I said, we need her. We don’t need nearly as much testimony on Lashay and Kerkin. With the amount of weapons and drugs, they’re screwed.”

  “What are you charging them with?”

  “Everything from felony possession of drugs and firearms to kidnapping and attempted murder.”

  “Yo, Margie!” It was Oliver, his face tense and taut. He was holding an evidence bag. He grabbed a chair and sat down next to the women. “Glad I caught you both.”

  “How’s it going?”

  Oliver took in a deep breath and let it out. “Okay from a police point of view. As a person, I’m beat. We went through Cameron Cole’s bedroom. In her bottom clothing drawer, we found a bunch of jewelry, including an aquamarine ring that had been inscribed to Sydney.”

  Marge sat up. “Oh my Lord! You found Sydney Holly’s ring.”

  “What?” Nurit asked.

  Oliver said, “Myra Gelb killed herself with a stolen gun taken from Sydney Holly’s house. The gun belonged to her mother, but the ring belonged to her.”

  Marge said, “We now have a tie-in from that burglary to Cameron Cole.”

  “Who claimed that Dylan Lashay gave her the ring.”

  “That could be true.”

  “And if it is, it’s probably the only true thing that ever came from her mouth,” Oliver said.

  Nurit pulled out a notebook. “Let me write this all down.”

  “That’s not the big news,” Oliver said. “We found Gregory Hesse’s stolen computer and camcorder.”

  “Where?” Marge was tense.

  “Brubeck found them, along with more firearms, in a cubbyhole deep in Dylan Lashay’s walk-in closet. The computer has some sex stuff on it, but it’s the camcorder that’s truly nauseating. I have it in the bag. We need a private space because there’s audio on it. My car is parked across the street.”

  “Mine’s downstairs,” Nurit said.

  The three of them went down to the underground garage. Oliver took up the front seat, the two women sat in back. He put on a latex glove and took the camcorder out of an evidence bag. “It’s been fingerprinted.” He handed Marge a pair of gloves and then the camcorder. “There’s no way to prepare you for this. Just p
ush the play button when you’re ready.”

  “Which one is it?”

  Oliver turned around and pushed the button for her. Marge and Nurit stared at the pint-sized screen. Even in miniature size, the images were precise and clear. A smaller-than-life Gregory Hesse was leaning back on his bed, a mop of long brown hair covering his groin area. When the camera zoomed in, there was a close-up of Hesse’s penis going in and out of a mouth. There was stubble and acne on the chin.

  The voice-over said, “Yeah . . . do it, do it, do it.”

  “Who is that?” Nurit asked.

  “Wait,” Oliver said.

  There was thirty more seconds of fellatio, then Gregory climaxed. The long-haired figure disappeared from the screen, and Gregory Hesse zipped up his pants. His eyes were waxy. His lids were half closed. He looked stoned no matter what the tox said.

  The voice-over said, “You’re the man.”

  In a slurred voice, Gregory Hesse said, “I’m the man.”

  VO said, “You really want to be the man?”

  “Yeah . . . I am the man,” Hesse said.

  “No, you got to be the man, dude,” VO said. When Gregory Hesse looked confused, VO said, “Now this is being the man.”

  There was a loud click on the tape. Lots of things can make a click, but Marge sensed where this one was going. It turned her stomach.

  The VO said, “Your turn.”

  A second voice said. “Are you serious?”

  VO said, “C’mon, KK, don’t wuss out on me.”

  KK said, “You’re crazy!”

  “I’m crazy but I’m the man. I’ve demonstrated that. It’s your turn.”

  A long pause. The camera switched from Gregory Hesse to Kyle Kerkin holding a .22. Kyle said, “Is this thing loaded?”

  VO: What do you think?

  Kyle: I dunno, asshole, that’s why I’m asking you.

  VO: C’mon, KK. Show your balls when they’re not being licked.

  Kyle put the gun to his temple. He was sweating. He pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  An audible sigh. Kyle handed the gun to Gregory. “Your turn.”

  The boy looked utterly addled as he held the revolver in his hand. He kept staring at the camera.

  VO: You want to be the real man, you’ve got to be the man, dude.

  Hesse: Is this loaded?

  VO: You’ll find out.

  Kyle: C’mon, Dylan. Don’t be a prick.

  VO/Dylan: What do you think?

  A long pause.

  VO/Dylan: Of course it’s not loaded.

  Gregory: I dunno about this.

  VO/Dylan: C’mon, dude. Nothing’s gonna happen. It’ll look real cool on camera.

  Gregory: It’s not loaded?

  VO/Dylan: No, it’s not loaded! You honestly think I’d give you a loaded gun?

  Silence.

  VO/Dylan: C’mon, Greg. It’ll look supercool.

  Gregory put the gun to his head.

  Even though both women knew what to expect, the loud pop caused them both to startle. The screen sprayed a cloud of blood, brain, and bone as a wide-eyed lifeless figure fell backward onto the bed.

  Someone screamed out a “Shit!” Then an agitated “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  In the background, someone else was laughing very hard.

  VO/Dylan continued to laugh. With a giggle still in his voice, he said, “Oops.”

  Fade to nothing.

  The figure was in the chair next to him, sitting forward, folded hands between his knees. The eyes were usually those of a shark, ice blue and completely without emotion. Today, they were idling in neutral. The minuscule hospital window framed black, contrasting to the space inside, which was brightly lit.

  Gabe said, “Hey, roomie, whassup.” When his father didn’t answer, he said, “Can you get me my glasses?”

  Donatti picked them up and placed them over his son’s eyes.

  Gabe pulled himself into a sitting position, his body throbbing in pain. Chris was dressed in a yellow polo shirt under a brown suede shirt jacket. The man was thirty-five and looked anywhere from twenty to sixty depending on how much he drank. Today he looked younger than his years.

  Gabe’s eyes focused on his nightstand, specifically a tray filled with comestibles. “What’s that?”

  “I think it’s your dinner.” Donatti perused the contents. “You got applesauce, cranberry juice, Jell-O, a couple of slices of white bread—”

  Gabe interrupted with a groan. “I got hit in the ribs, not in the stomach.”

  Donatti reached into his bag and pulled out a fast-food hamburger. “Eat slowly.”

  Gabe took a bite, which fell into his stomach like a lead pellet. He threw it on his nightstand. “When do I get out of here?”

  “After you’ve taken a piss and a shit.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I am serious. That’s what the doctor said. He can leave after he’s taken a piss and a shit.” A pause. “He actually said after you’ve urinated and had a bowel movement, but I believe in brevity of words.”

  “How can I take a shit if I haven’t eaten all day?”

  “So fucking eat.”

  “Gimme the applesauce.” Donatti rolled his eyes and Gabe caught it. It was going to be a very long stay in Nevada. After Chris gave him the applesauce, Gabe said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “When’d you get in?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “What time is it?”

  “You’re just full of questions.” Chris looked at his watch. “Almost eleven.”

  “Sorry to inconvenience you.”

  “No inconvenience.” Donatti’s voice was bland. “I finished what I had to do before I came here.”

  “You can go back if you want. I can fly into Elko by myself.”

  “Gabriel, don’t be an asshole. I’m here because I want to be here. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t have come. Stop trying to goad me into losing my temper so you can hate me. It won’t work.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. By the way, I e-mailed your mother and told her you’ve been shot.”

  “You did?” Gabe’s eyes got wide. “Why?”

  “I thought she should know.”

  “Did you tell her I’ll be okay?”

  “No.”

  Using his ordeal to get back at his mom. Gabe should have been incredulous, but he wasn’t. “Can you e-mail her back and tell her I’m okay?”

  “Do it yourself.”

  “I don’t have my computer.”

  “Then I guess she’ll just have to wait.”

  “You’re such a bastard!”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Gabe glanced at his father’s face, then looked down. He was too damn sore even to be nervous. “Let me ask you something, Chris. What if the bullet would have, like, gone through my hand and shattered it.” He made eye contact with his dad. “I mean, what would you have done?”

  “It’s not what I would have done, Gabe, it’s what you would have done.”

  “Would you still let me live with you?”

  Donatti gave him a hard look. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “I mean, I couldn’t be a pianist anymore.”

  “And . . .”

  “And I know how important that is to you . . . my career.”

  “You think that’s important to me? That you become a pianist.”

  “You’ve always pushed me.”

  “Yeah, I pushed you. ’Cause you wanted to be pushed. But if you want to give it up, that’s your decision. You don’t want to go to Juilliard, go to Harvard. You don’t want to go to college, come to Nevada and I’ll teach you how to run whorehouses. You want to just fuck around and be a total washout, I’ll support you. Just do what you want to do and if you don’t know what you want to do, that’s okay, too.”

  Neither one spoke for a minute. Gabe was still looking at hi
s lap. “I do want it, you know. Music is my life.”

  “You have the talent to go all the way, Gabriel. Now it’s just a matter of fortitude.”

  Gabe sighed, which made him wince. His heart was so heavy. He muttered, “I didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye to her.”

  “What?”

  “Yasmine. I didn’t get to say good-bye. Her mom just yanked her away from me.” His father remained stone-faced. “Forget it.”

  “What would you like me to say?”

  “How about, ‘That really sucks.’ ”

  Donatti shrugged. “You get shot and you lose your girlfriend in a single day. That really does suck.”

  Strangely his father’s words made him feel better. “I know you think I’m just a stupid kid, but I really, really liked her.”

  Donatti said, “I believe you. I wish I could make you feel better. If you weren’t underage, I’d set you up with my whores. But I can’t take the chance. Once you turn eighteen, I’ll get you any girl you want—any body type, any hair color, any eye color, any race, any ethnicity, anything you want. Custom-made pussy. In the meantime, you’re a good-looking dude. You shouldn’t have any problems attracting twat. Once you get to college, you’ll be fine.”

  Gabe stared at his father but didn’t say anything.

  Donatti shrugged. “Don’t look so stunned. You should know me by now. I can’t relate to anything I can’t fuck. It’s not that I don’t have feelings. I do. But they’re intertwined with sex and that’s just the way I’m wired. Yes, it does suck that you lost your girlfriend. But my take on it would be: I’m pissed because I can’t have sex with her anymore. So if I can’t have sex with her, I’ll find someone else. So I’m talking to you like I’d like to be talked to if I were in the situation. And that would be, ‘Chris, you can’t have A, so here’s B.’ ”

  Gabe glanced at his father. Then he said, “Can you pass me the hamburger?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you.” Gabe ate in silence. Then he realized he was starving, and ate the Jell-O and the bread. He said, “Are you sure you’re okay with me living with you?”

  “You know you could have moved in with me after your mom left. I thought you were better off with the Deckers. But now you’re not. If Decker is saying get out of town, I take him seriously. And that’s the end of the story. Just mind your manners and keep out of my way when I’m in a mood and we’ll be fine.”