by Andrew Gross
I leaned forward. “Do you have a cell phone?” I asked.
“Yes.” The driver nodded. “I do.”
“Can I borrow it? It’s an emergency. I’m a doctor . . .”
The driver turned and actually eyed me for the first time, and warily. Who could blame him? I was disheveled, bloody, and barely coherent. He hesitated, probably wondering if he should pull over and tell me to get the hell out.
“Please, it’s a police emergency,” I said again. “My son’s in danger. I’m a doctor. I need to call my wife.”
Something must have convinced him, because after thinking a second, he pulled his phone off the seat next to him and handed it back to me.
“Thank you,” I said, grateful, meeting his concerned eyes.
The first call was to Kathy. I could barely punch in the number, I was so nervous and disoriented. Dev had said they had Max. I could barely hold on as I heard it ring.
“Hello?”
“Kath,” I shouted as she answered. I saw the clock on the taxi’s dashboard. It was eleven P.M. back home.
She heard the disturbance in my voice right away. “Jay, what’s wrong?”
“Kath—where’s Maxie?” I asked. “Is he okay?”
“Max? I don’t know, Jay. He’s out at a friend’s. He said he was studying. What’s wrong?”
“When was the last time you heard from him?” I asked her.
“The last time? I don’t know. A couple of hours ago. He said he’d be home by eleven. Why?”
“Kathy, you need to call him,” I said to her, “now.” My heart was leaping around like a cod in a catch bin. “He could be in trouble. Do it for me, Kathy. Now.”
“Jay, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“I can’t tell you right now, but please, please, Kathy, just do it. Call him. While I’m on the phone. Now!”
“Okay . . . ,” she answered tremulously.
I figured she was in bed. Reading. She got up and ran to her phone. The next seconds seemed like an hour to me. My hands were shaking. Like most doctors, I was a guy who didn’t rush to assumptions, who always waited for the facts to determine a course of action.
But my mind was rushing to the worst now.
Finally she came back on the line. “There’s no answer. Jay, tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Kath, I just need you to listen. Call the police. Tell them to look for him. Tell them where he was. Give them his license plate numbers.”
“Jay! You’re sounding crazy. I don’t know the plate numbers. You’re scaring me!”
“Kathy, please, just do it, okay! Someone here said they had taken him.”
“Taken him?” She became apoplectic. “Jay, tell me what’s going on!”
“I can’t. Kathy, I can’t. I’m sorry. Just do it for me. Please. I’m on my way to Charlie’s. They could be in danger too. I know how this all sounds. I know it’s crazy. But just call the police. Call the house where he was at.” I looked at the clock. “You can call me at Charlie’s when you know something. Okay? And, Kathy . . .”
I knew I sounded crazy. I also knew I had no idea how the next minutes might turn out. I couldn’t say it before, but now I could. And I did. “I love you, honey. And the kids . . .”
All she could say back was, “I love you too, Jay.”
I hung up. The driver must have thought I was crazy. “How long?”
“Long?” He turned around.
“How much longer until we’re there?”
He shook his head; his eyes went wide. “Five, six minutes . . .”
The palm of my right hand was throbbing. I hadn’t even noticed it since I left the hospital in such haste. I bit off the end of the tape and began to peel away the gauze, not sure what I would find.
It was covered in antiseptic cream.
I rubbed it on my pants and my heart almost climbed through my throat.
The ugliest cuts were there. Four slash marks dug in the skin—from Dev’s blade. Each a kind of a half semicircle.
I had seen them before, but now they were staring back at me. As a gruesome reminder. On my own hand.
An eye!
A feeling of nausea rose up through the waves of pain. My next call was to Sherwood. His cell number was embedded in my head. Dev had made me believe he was in trouble, or even dead, but how could I be sure?
The call went through, his phone rang—two, three times. No one picked up. My pulse buzzed like a bass guitar. Come on, answer, Sherwood. Please . . . Now it was five rings! To my dismay, it transferred into voice mail. “You’ve reached Detective Don Sherwood . . . Please leave your name, a message, and your number. I’ll . . .”
My body was flooded by a sensation of dread. He wasn’t picking up. Which wasn’t good. Dev’s mocking smile came into my mind. If by “police” you mean your ol’ buddy Sherwood . . . He had become a friend. And I was both nervous and scared for him.
I struggled through some kind of hurried, rambling message. “Sherwood, it’s me. Jay. I’ve been beaten. By the guy I mentioned. It’s after eight. I’m heading to Charlie’s now. If you get this message send someone there. Please, Don . . . And God, I hope you’re all right.”
I hung up, pushing back the most horrible feeling something terrible had befallen him. He had said he was on his way. If he had been he would have found me at the motel. The EMTs would have mentioned it.
“I have to make one more call,” I told the driver.
This time to Charlie.
His number rang. I let the line ring and ring. Each was like a sharp blade cutting into my heart, taking a piece of me with each unanswered tone.
Where could they be?
No one picked up.
I was starting to get really scared now. And I wasn’t sure what to do. I handed the phone back to the driver. The neighborhood began to look familiar. We were on Costa Verde Drive now, only a few blocks from their place. The driver stopped at a light. Each second was like an eternity. He turned on Fourth and started to go up the hill.
“Call the police,” I said. “As soon as you drop me off. Tell them to come to that address. Six-oh-nine Division. Apartment two. Tell them there’s a possible homicide in progress.”
The driver looked at me, scared.
“Just do it,” I said. “And I’m sorry. I can’t pay you now. I’m staying at the Cliffside Suites. You know it?”
He nodded. I don’t think he cared about being paid now.
“My name is Erlich. Ask for me there. I’ll leave money. I promise.”
We were only a block away, but Division was a one-way street and he’d have to wrap around the block, which I couldn’t wait for. I actually saw Charlie’s building. It would be shorter if I ran.
“I’m getting out!” I said. “Thank you for the phone. Now call . . .” I put my hands on his shoulders and squeezed. “Please . . .”
I jumped out and headed down the darkened street. One side bordered a thicket of trees, the train tracks. I glanced behind me and saw the taxi drive away. I prayed he would follow through. My pace was erratic, my balance off, my brain still woozy. But I had regained my wits now and I prayed I wasn’t too late. That Dev hadn’t already gotten there.
Your brother and his wife are going to be dead soon . . .
I got to the carport of his building. The dimly lit courtyard.
I glanced across the street and what I saw there made my spirits soar.
A police car. Stationed outside. Like Sherwood had said. Parked in the shadows.
Thank God!
I hurried over. The car’s lights were off. The driver’s window appeared to be down. I could see a huddled shape behind the dash.
“Officer, officer!” I yelled as I ran up. My heart was ricocheting off my ribs. “I need some help.”
I got to the car, put my hands on the window. “Officer, my brother’s inside that house and—”
My stomach almost came up my throat at what I saw.
The cop inside, his cap off
, head slumped to the side, blood all over the top of his neck.
And a bright red circle dotting the center of his forehead.
Chapter Seventy-Five
“So many things to go over, Charlie. So many years . . .”
Dev had let in Susan Pollack, the woman Charlie knew as Maggie, and they had their guns out, grinning. “And the little woman. So nice to finally meet you. So where to start?” He picked up the splintered neck of Charlie’s guitar that sat on the mantel. He whistled sympathetically. “Man, that must’ve put a dent in the ol’ music career . . .”
“What do you want with us, Dev?”
“What do I want? What could we possibly want, Charlie? When it comes to you. Hey!” He placed the guitar neck back on the hearth. “How’d you like the pictures? I made ’em up just for you.”
His eyes grew wide, flashes of relish and enjoyment in them. “I’m thinking definitely some of my best work, don’t you agree? As I remember, you two were kinda cozy back then. Man, it was sure a bitch to find her. She’d really lived quite the regular life since she left you . . .”
“You didn’t have to kill her, Dev. She was just a kid back then. She wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”
“Of course we had to kill her, Charlie. I mean, you see that, don’t you? That it wasn’t even about her, anyway. Not about her at all.” He sat across from him, spreading his knees. His gun bobbed against his thigh. “That was about you, mate. We had to kill her because we wanted to make the point to you. You get it now?”
“Yeah, I get it, Dev.”
“I mean, you knew what the score was, Charlie. Chase. Buckaroo. You knew even back then. When you brought those pigs into the garden, the rest of us had to do what? Clean up the mess. Right? It’s like with the Bible, Charlie. Ain’t no statute of limitations on betrayal.”
“That was all more than thirty years ago, Dev. We’ve lived out our lives.”
“Thirty years . . .” The words had a certain importance to them. Dev looked over to Susan. “He wants to know what thirty years is, Maggie.”
“Thirty years is what I gave up,” she said to him. “Over ten thousand days, Charlie. Each one spent counting the hours. Marking them off in my head. Until I could do what I was spared to do. What Russell wanted me to do. He knew part of his flock was weak. That they would betray him. That was why some got to go with him and others had to wait behind. So they would be here one day . . .”
“Russell was crazy, Maggie! He murdered all those people. Now you’re as guilty as him. What you’ve done is evil.”
“Evil?” Susan Pollack chuckled and dangled her gun. Her smile was mirthless. “Don’t you remember nothing is evil if it’s done from love, Charlie? And your son . . . That was done from the greatest love I knew.”
“Evan?”
The woman he knew as Mags’s eyes bore in on him. “I gave up my life for him. For Russell. What did you give up? You gave up nothing, Charlie. So you had to pay.”
“What did you do to my son?” Gabby said, glaring at her.
“What did I do to your son?” Susan laughed and looked as if she was talking about a dying insect. “Your son was a confused little child who didn’t know whether he was alive or dead.”
“No, he was innocent,” Gabby said, standing up. “He was sick.”
“He was crazy, you stupid bitch. I learned more of what was in his heart in an hour than the two of you knew about him your whole lives. He wanted to kill himself out of spite just for the pain it would cause you. He hated the two of you—you both! But he was afraid, just like you were always afraid, Charlie. The little coward didn’t have the guts to do what had to be done.”
“What did you do to him?” Gabby’s face became twisted with horror and rage. She took a step toward her, and Maggie raised the gun to her face, aiming it at her with two hands.
“Gabby, please . . .” Charlie tried to stand and go to her, but Dev lifted his foot and kicked him back onto the couch.
“You’ll have your own turn, Charlie boy.”
Gabby stared into Susan Pollack’s impassive face. Tears suddenly glistened in her eyes, the moistness slowly trickling down her cheeks. “What did you do to him?” she pressed.
Susan Pollack merely smiled.
“Please. You were there with him. Tell me. I need to know. Do what you want to me, I don’t care. But I need to know. It’s all that matters to me now.” She took another step toward Susan, not menacingly, more like imploring her. “Somewhere in your heart you are a woman too. Can’t you see? Our lives are over. They were over the day he died. So tell me, I beg you, please. It’s all that matters now. What happened to my son?”
Susan Pollack raised the gun and aimed it at Gabby’s face.
Charlie’s chest flooded with fear. “Gabby, no!”
Susan gave her a smile. Then she lowered the gun, eyes bright with delight. “You really want to know? He said I was his angel. So I did what an angel does.” She grinned. “I showed him the way.”
Chapter Seventy-Six
He stepped out on the ledge once again, trembling. He gazed at the million lit candles far below, heard the whoosh of the surf crashing onto the rocks.
“Just fly, Evan . . .”
“You mean like this?” He spread out his arms.
“Yes,” his angel said, “just like that.”
He wanted to, he told himself. He really did. He wanted to end it, end the pain and hurt; end the confusion and the voice and all the disappointment that he knew he caused. His mom and dad had turned him over to the police. They had abandoned him. Put him away. How can people who love you betray you? This was the way . . .
He took another step, leaning forward.
But he couldn’t. He just stared out at the lights and started to cry. He realized how mistaken he had been. The things he’d done. His part in the hurt he had caused. He flashed to his mother and father. He imagined what it would be like, their hearing the news, and instead of relief and joy, he saw how devastated they would be. How, through it all, they still loved him. Through the cursing and the anger and the fights, that’s what he saw there.
They loved him.
And he loved them.
This wasn’t the way.
“I can’t,” he said, stepping back from the edge. “I can’t.”
“Just let God take you, Evan. I’m your angel. You know that, don’t you?”
“No.” He shook his head. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “I want to go home.”
“You cowardly little shit,” the voice said, her tone hardening. “Do what you’re fucking up here for. Do what you have to do.”
“No!” He turned and stared, and suddenly saw an ugly, foreign face, a woman he had never seen before. Not his angel. Not his inner voice. “Who are you?”
“I’m not your little angel, you ignorant shit.” The woman’s face was now twisted in disgust. “I’m your hell, boy! And your hell is here. Now do it! You want to die? Well, I’m here to bring you to the promised land. There’s no turning back. Your parents don’t give a shit. They hate you just the way you hate them. Now do what you came here to do.”
“No—I see it now,” he said, the moon illuminating his face, slick with tears. “I came up here to see God. And now I’ve seen him.” He turned to the panoply of lights, the millions of candles assembled before him. “Look, I understand it now. I see—”
“You see nothing, you stupid, drugged-out worm! You wouldn’t know God if he was with you now.”
“He is,” he said, ignoring the taunts. “I can feel him. He’s—”
“Then let him save you,” the woman said. She threw her weight against him, forcing him toward the edge. His heart started to race. He tried to gain his balance, stumbling over a rock, his right foot coming out of his shoe.
“Dad!”
“Your daddy isn’t up here,” the woman said. “Just me. That’s all.” She pushed him again. This time he tried to grab on to her and spun his arms, teetering.
“You wa
nt your parents, little boy? You’ll be with them soon enough. Tell him that, Evan. When you see God. Tell him Mommy and Daddy are on the way.”
She taunted him again. He tried to latch onto her, the angel he had trusted, but found only air.
He stared down at the bottom, terrified. “Mom!”
She pushed him one last time, and he spun, seeing clearly now that the lights weren’t candles at all, but streets, homes, cars, and that the choir below wasn’t angelic voices, but waves crashing, hitting the rocks.
Yet, instead of fear, something else entered his heart as his arms fluttered, unable to stop his fall.
Something welcoming. For the first time, a kind of attachment.
Everything seemed to reach out to him in a friendly way.
Mom, Dad . . .
He reached out, trying to grab on to them.
But it was only the night he held, the endless starry night.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
“You killed him!” Gabby stared uncomprehendingly at Susan, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You killed my son.”
“I merely did what the gutless little shit didn’t have the balls to do himself,” Susan Pollack replied. “I showed him the way.”
I heard this, pressed against the front door, having crossed the courtyard to Charlie’s apartment. Susan Pollack’s spiteful re-creation of Evan’s death, and Gabby’s heartbroken reply.
I had the dead officer’s gun with me.
The curtains were drawn, but the door was still slightly ajar, and I could hear what was happening inside. I prayed that the cabbie had done what I’d begged him to and called the police. Through a slit in the curtains, I saw Dev and Susan Pollack holding guns on Charlie and Gabby.
I was the only one who could help them now.
“You’re not an angel,” Gabby said, her gaze blazing like a furnace bursting with hate. “You’re a monster. You killed him. You’re the one who should die. This monster killed our son, Charlie . . .” She was starting to lose control. “I cannot live with that.”
