Blood and Sand

by Cameron Cain

  Prologue: Late

  I’m standing in the middle of a blood-spattered room. It’s one in the morning. I know because a church bell is tolling the hour so loudly I have to plug my ears.

  “How the hell did they sleep through that every night?” I ask nobody.

  It’s not a mystery how they’re sleeping now. I go up to the wall and check out the photos. Hattie Turner and her granddaughter Polly, all smiles, all over the place: the water park, the zoo, the La Brea tar pits. Birthdays, a recent Christmas, Hattie in a Fourth of July parade wearing Breast Cancer Awareness pink.

  Most of the photos are spattered, too. I resist an urge to wipe them off.

  All smiles, in spite of living in a dump like this. It’s four hundred square feet, tops. The sofa’s got a pull-out bed that’s pulled out now, the sheets on it crusted red. The kitchen has the dimensions of a closet, but it’s tidy — except for the spurting lines across the cabinets, like someone ran in there with an arterial bleed.

  The adjoining bedroom is so small that the twin bed and dresser inside pretty much fill it. That twin bed is mussed, unmade, but otherwise perfectly normal. I have to look down where I stand in the doorway, at the eight white scratches running along the dingy floorboards. Polly’s fingernails. She grabbed for something, anything, while somebody dragged her out by her feet.

  I take it in, now, in the dark, the way it was when they were surprised awake by their apartment door unlocking. I take it all in: the crooked coffee table, the open kitchen drawer, the shoe-prints on the tile. But mostly I take in the blood. All that blood and the path it leaves, the story it tells.

  I close my eyes.

  Hattie’s fast asleep when the click of the lock wakes her. She goes for something — a gun in the coffee table? a knife? — but can’t get to it before he’s inside. Hattie charges; he’s not expecting it. He fires, but she keeps coming. He’s stunned, unable to believe a seventy-year-old woman is putting up this kind of a fight. Hattie’s blood is coming out in a series of quick sprays perfectly sync’d to her frantic heartbeat. She’s next to the knife drawer in the kitchen, and she opens it, but she doesn’t get a chance to reach inside.

  I open my eyes. I swallow past a distinct need to throw up. “Okay,” I say. “It’s okay, it’s done. You’re here.” This has never, not once, been a comfort to me. But I still say it.

  Because if I’m here? Then this kid who’s been yanked off the edge of the world might still have a chance.

  Chapter 1: Early

  You’ve never traveled until you’ve traveled by seaplane. I learned to fly not long after I quit the FBI. It was more for convenience than anything. Once I went freelance, I loaded up on cases as fast as I could, and I didn’t want to waste time in airports. It surprised me how much I loved it, especially the air-to-water craft. Landing them must be what a duck feels like, settling into a lake after a long haul through the clear blue sky.

  But that’s backwards: I’m just starting my long haul. And it isn’t going to be through a clear blue sky but through the smoggy, filthy streets of LA.

  I get my plane docked and locked, and then I do my usual dance with the owner, who’s always trying to up his fee. From there, I pop to the rental agency, where my usual guy is — as usual — asleep in front of the office’s tiny TV.

  I’m about to wake him when I see her face: Polly Turner, right there on the screen. A morning talk show host is holding up her school photo so the studio audience can see: nine years old and baby-faced, blond with a navy blue ‘do rag on her head.

  “Tell me this,” the host says, “what are the police doing? I think she deserves better. Don’t you all think she deserves better?”

  Applause. Whistles and cheers. This has to be some kind of record, a missing kid being such big news so fast.

  I smack the bell on the desk.

  “Whoa-uh? Oh. Hey, Beth.”

  “Manny.”

  He mouses his computer awake. “Same?”

  “Same.”

  “New or used?”

  I stay silent long enough for him to look up at me. “Who are you talking to?”

  Ten minutes later, I’m splitting lanes on this year’s sports model Ducati. I can’t help it, I speed a little. It’s late spring and the sun is perfect. And I know, even as I’m savoring this moment, that it’s going to give way very soon to a nightmare.

  I’ve got a system. My first stop is never where the cops are. It’s close-by a lot of the time, and this time is no exception. I cruise into a crummy part of downtown, slowing at an elementary school, where I pull my bike into the only spot, a loading zone.

  “Can’t park there,” says a security guard.

  I take off my helmet, take out my wallet, and show him my ID.

  He frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Ask your boss’s boss,” I say, putting it away. “They’ll tell you.”

  His shades are mirrored, but he’s looking me up and down. You get a feel for that after a while. I’m wearing the same thing I wear on every case: fitted black pants and black shirt, black boots and my black leather jacket with all the pockets. I don’t like wasting thought on my wardrobe.

  I walk away from him. He’s not going to tow me; you get a feel for that after a while, too.

  I head up the street. I don’t make note of the signs. I navigate by landmark, always have. It shouldn’t work for me in LA, but it hasn’t failed me yet, and the huge church I’m walking toward is a landmark I won’t forget. I know from my dossier that it got condemned last year, and by the look of it, not a moment too soon: the rear facade screams neglect, windows are busted, boards hang off like feathers from a sick bird, bricks are disintegrating and raining their dust on the parched grass.

  I turn east. Polly lived one block up. The parking situation is classic — both sides of the street are hood-to-bumper vehicles. This means the cops’ parking situation is also classic: they’re doubled and tripled into the street. The lights on their cars aren’t turning anymore, but there’s still a dynamic duo guarding the entrance. One of them looks like he’s still in high school and the other might be entering his third trimester of expecting twins. I could hit them up for info, but I don’t see the need. Sometimes the file I get is the kid’s picture, where they were last seen, the guardian’s phone number and that’s it.

  This one’s different. This one came with loads of fun facts.

  For instance: Polly’s building. Early this morning, when a neighbor came over to ask Hattie if she wanted to play bridge, the door was locked and there was no answer. This wasn’t the norm for a weekday, so Neighbor goes and gets her key, opens the door, starts screaming and doesn’t stop ’til the medics come and give her a shot. Police follow shortly after that and, while conducting a standard canvas of the building, a detective steps on the wrong stair in a staircase and his foot punches through, breaking his tibia. This brought the county inspector in, and the building might have escaped its fate if that inspector, venturing into the basement to check the state of the electrical work, hadn’t been bitten by a rat he later described as “bigger’n God.”

  Short version: Polly’s building is now also condemned. As I pass, I note that the uniforms and cheap suits flowing in and out of the front door are doing so carefully, checking the doorframe as they move through, like it might fold in and concuss them.

  I smile, sort of amused, as I make a casual right to cross the street. The levity freezes on my face when I see who’s chatting with a local right there on the opposite curb.

  He doesn’t see me. This tracks with what I remember; he’s not especially observant. Dane’s a decent guy — he’s got a taste for airhead girlfriends, which he went through like cheap toilet paper, so I stopped trying to learn their names an
d just called them all Bambi — but “decent guy” doesn’t mean dick about anything else. “Decent guy” doesn’t mean you pay attention. “Decent guy” doesn’t mean you’re putting pieces together. “Decent guy” might mean you care, or it might mean you’re really great at faking it.

  He looks good, but that’s not shocking. He’s got one of those faces that communicates to everyone, instantly, how accepted and seen and appreciated they are. I fell for that face for a long time. I never landed in his bed, but that’s just luck.

  I’m past him. There’s no way I can work this disappearance without talking to him, but not now, no thanks. Right now is about Polly. Specifically, it’s about the street Polly walked down every day, and so far? Pretty skeevy. There’s a pawn shop, a bail bonds place. There are soaped-over windows, several doors that have been forced, a blackened spoon in the gutter, the smell of people who have infrequent access to running water and, on top of that, the smell of their continued need to relieve themselves somewhere. I’ve smelled it a lot. I think of it as the smell of despair.

  So, say you’re nine years old and you walk past a level of urban decay every morning that’s gone about a mile past decay and wound up closer to urban desiccation. Say your grandmother was a schoolteacher getting by on a sad salary and so-so health insurance until she got breast cancer. Say she covered the medical bills as best she could but she wound up in a level of debt that is the stuff of bad dreams and moved here, caring for a granddaughter whose mom did a runner from rehab and faded into the wraiths on Skid Row. And say Granny played the lottery every month, hoping and praying and watching and waiting for a miracle.

  Now, say she won.

  I take another right. Here’s the school again. It’s coming alive — the rundown playground bouncing with cartoon t-shirts and princess backpacks, kids crossing the street with kamikaze daring, an exhausted crossing guard enduring the honking horn of a rusty Camaro with a shirtless dude behind the wheel. I go to the bus stop and sit on the bench, butt on the backrest, feet on the seat. I slouch down and prop my chin on my hands, listening to kid-screams, traffic, and underpaid adults trying to keep it all in line. There are houses across the street, those ratty bungalows that go for way to much rent in the city. As I watch, a boy comes out of one. He’s on the small side, maybe seven years old. My eyes flick sideways to the crossing guard, who’s signaling the Camaro he can advance, and Mr. Shirtless behind the wheel embraces his deep emotional maturity, flooring the gas.

  I’m up, moving. I intercept the boy and lift him. I hear the Camaro’s side mirror clip the back of my jacket. There’s a squeal of brakes. There’s the bungalow’s front door opening in front of me and a woman’s voice rising in mile-a-minute Spanish. There’s the boom of male entitlement behind me, with a car door opening, slamming: “Hey, bitch, why don’t you watch your kid so he doesn’t get smeared —”

  I unzip a pocket. I put on the brass knuckles. I turn around as the mother reaches her son, hugging him to her, hiding him from the man, who’s still shouting.

  “— or are you too busy making breakfast for your six other brats?”

  I hit the passenger side window dead-center. It crashes in beautifully, the chips raining onto the seat like so much ice. I take a wide step sideways so I’m between Mom and this skinny, tatted, over-pierced and undereducated specimen who’s looking at me like I’m someone that speaks his language.

  I am. I’m fluent. I flex my fingers around shiny metal.

  He’s about to put his hands up — good instinct — when he catches himself. He stabs a finger in my direction, even as he retreats to the driver’s side. “I’ll be on the lookout for you, bitch.”

  I move to the rear passenger side window, drawing my arm back.

  He hits the accelerator and zooms away, holding a rigid middle finger out the window.

  I cross the street again. I don’t say anything to Mom or the kid; I highly doubt my behavior has put me in the “Good Influence” column. I’m checking my hands for cuts (none — brass knuckles are great for smashing glass without shredding your skin, but they’re not a hundred percent; the trick is to hit the window exactly in the middle) and reclaiming my seat when a taco truck pulls over. I hop off like the bench is on fire. I order three, plus coffee. When I sit back down the playground is raging behind me. The swings are full, and a game of freeze tag is getting very serious. I’m taking a bite big enough to choke a hippo when a voice to my left says, “What’s your name?”

  It’s the boy. Plopping down on the bench beside me, two different superheroes on his shirt and sneakers.

  I answer while chewing: “Why?”

  “Mine’s Hector.” He points. “I live over there.”

  “Don’t tell strangers where you live, Hector.”

  “Why?”

  I swallow, sip some coffee. “Why do you think?”

  He puts a finger to his chin, pretending to think hard.

  It’s adorable, but I’m not in the mood. “Got anything yet?”

  “You’re not from here,” he says, swinging his legs.

  “Shouldn’t you be going inside?”

  “The bell ain’t rung yet.”

  “You could get a head start.”

  “Are you looking for Polly?” he says.

  I blink at that, give him my full attention. “Did you know her?”

  He shakes his head. “She’s second grade. I’m first. You trying to find Polly or not?”

  “Not.”

  “Not?”

  “No,” I say, “I’m going to find her.”

  He might be impressed. Or he might be gassy, who knows? “Why you and not the cops?” he says.

  “How do you know I’m not a cop?”

  “Cuz you’re not.”

  This charms me like nothing else could. “Because I know where the bad guys parked.” I nod at the church. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me so far. The back of Polly’s building opens directly onto the east side of the church grounds, and if you’re dragging bodies, the last thing you want to do is double-park on the street.

  “Wow.” Definitely impressed. He looks at all the zippers on my jacket. “What else is in there?”

  The bell rings. I tell him, “Go learn something.”

  He waves goodbye and runs off. I finish eating in new, eerie quiet and toss my trash. I nurse my coffee en route to the church, liking my theory more and more as I go. There’s no alley or street between the properties, just a vacant lot. It’s the perfect place for neighborhood kids to play football or kickball, an idea confirmed when I arrive: the waffle prints of small shoes dot the dirt all over.

  I get on the anemic grass and follow it to some mangy trees in the lot’s corner. You have to be looking close, but blood is sprinkled in a lazy trail leading toward the apartment’s back door.

  I turn around and head back for my bike, dialing. I’m sent straight to voicemail.

  “Hey, Dane. Let’s skip why I’m here and how I know and jump right to me doing your job for you. There’s a blood trail leading from the building’s back door to the vacant lot by the church. Might wanna get the techies over there to process it. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  I hang up. I’m at my bike, straddling it. There’s no such thing as getting out of here fast enough.

  Chapter 2

  Every time I take a case I make sure to specify that I’ll be liaising with local police rather than the feds. This often dumbfounds whoever hired me, since they assume the feds will have more plentiful information. But if the client wants to push the matter, I’m happy to explain that I prefer boots-on-the-ground cops. They know the neighborhood better, they know the people, they have the ins that serve me when I need them to and if they’re on the outs with somebody, guess what? I’m not one of them. When I picked law enforcement as a career, I was young enough and dumb enough to believe it was going to be about justice. We’d work together to see villains caught, victims avenged, and society made better by our efforts.

>   Then I get in, and it turns out to be a popularity contest. I know what you’re thinking: the people who complain about popularity contests are the same people who never win them. Fair point. Except I didn’t give a rat’s round ass about promotions, commendations, medals, or ceremonies. I just wanted to do the job. Imagine my surprise when I found out that all the other people around me and their desperation for those promotions, commendations, medals, and ceremonies made it harder for me to do my job. Sometimes it made doing my job impossible.

  It’s not like I believe a police department is inherently better. I didn’t believe that when I left the Bureau, and I don’t believe it as I’m tooling down the 405, headed for a precinct I haven’t worked with before but which should be expecting me. It’s more that police departments are often full of guys who wanted a job and weren’t big fans of desks and could shoot a gun pretty straight and decided what the hell. Most of them are punching a clock.

  But feds are overachievers, and overachievers are under-sharers. So unless I’ve got a good reason to play it otherwise, I’m with the cops.

  It’s still not nine yet. Walking into the precinct, I see a crowd by the coffeemaker. They’re watching the man at the machine. He’s measuring grounds, setting the cup on the counter to get his amount exact.

  One guy’s had enough and says, “Hey Tuttle, why’s this always take so long?”

  Tuttle straightens, turns around and says, with so much good humor that it makes me wonder if he’s ever had an enemy in his life, “Why don’t you go across the street and get some of that deli swill, Jennings?”

  A few cops smile.

  “In fact,” Tuttle says, “how come you guys are all waiting in line?”

  There’s a silence, followed by Jennings mumbling.

  Tuttle cups a hand around his year. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

  Jennings lifts his head and says, “Because you are the coffee master.”

  Tuttle lifts a hand like a conductor at a symphony, and the whole line says, “You are the coffee master.”