Allison (A Kane Novel)

by Steve Gannon

  “I’m serious, Grandma.”

  “I know you are, honey. And yes, your mother and I fought, sometimes a lot. Of course, I had her when I wasn’t much older than you are now, so I still had plenty of growing up to do myself.”

  I hesitated, surprised by her answer. Dorothy and my mother seemed so close, I had trouble imagining them ever disagreeing, much less fighting. “Mom had me early, too,” I noted. “She married Dad at nineteen.”

  Dorothy nodded. “That was one of the things your mother and I fought about. Bitterly, I regret to say. Not that I didn’t approve of Dan. Quite the contrary. I simply thought they should have waited to marry until Catheryn had graduated from college. As things turned out, I was wrong.”

  “What was Mom like when she was growing up?”

  Dorothy’s eyes took on the faraway look of someone mentally revisiting things long past. “Your mother was precocious, inquisitive, and loving,” she said. “She reminded me of you, Ali. She was also obstinate, opinionated, and rebellious,” she added fondly. “In that respect she was like you, too. Perhaps worse.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now, let me ask you something.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Are you happy?”

  I hesitated, taken off guard by her question. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. Are you happy?”

  “I … I’d like to think I’m working toward it,” I replied. “Only sometimes I don’t know what I want.”

  “As you get older, you may discover that getting what you think you want doesn’t necessarily make you happy.”

  “What do you do, then?”

  “That’s something people have to discover for themselves,” said Dorothy. “I do know that what makes for happiness isn’t always a successful career, or money, or any of the other things that people expect to fulfill them.”

  “I suppose not,” I agreed, wondering where our discussion was leading.

  “There’s a reason I asked you that question,” said Dorothy, as if reading my mind. “You know that Catheryn and I have no secrets between us.”

  I remained silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “I haven’t mentioned this before now because I knew you didn’t want to discuss it. And you probably still don’t.” Dorothy took a deep breath and continued. “Catheryn told me what happened to you on the night those men broke into your house. I know that you kept it hidden for a long time, and I can imagine what keeping that secret did to you. And to your mother.”

  “Grandma—”

  Dorothy raised her hand. “Let me finish. Something like what you experienced is hard to get over, especially if you keep it bottled up inside. It’s too much for someone your age to carry around by yourself. If you ever want to discuss it, I’m available.”

  I didn’t respond, the memory of my rape coiling like a serpent in my mind.

  “Now, I realize that on top of everything else, you have a lot of uncertainty in your life right now,” Dorothy pushed on. “Your mother’s illness, and this job at CBS that’s driving your mom and dad crazy, and what to do about school and your career and the rest of your life. They’re confusing things, things you may not know how to handle yet. Time takes care of many problems, but not all. So at the risk of sounding like a meddling old grandma, which I guess I am, I’m going to impart a few words of grandmotherly advice.”

  “Do I have a choice in this?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Dorothy smiled patiently. “I’m going to say this, whether you want to hear it or not. But I hope you hear me, Ali. It may not sound like much, but my mother told me this when I was about your age, and it’s helped me through some rough spots.” Dorothy took my hand. “Look inside yourself, Ali. Look inside and ask yourself what’s truly important. When you know that, everything else will fall into place.”

  Long after Dorothy had returned to the house, I remained on the sea wall, watching as the fire subsided to a mound of glowing coals. With an unsettling sense of déjà vu, I pondered my grandmother’s words, recalling that Travis had told me essentially the same thing. Put another way, Mom had, too.

  The people I love are my life’s real blessings.

  Get your priorities straight.

  Ask yourself what’s truly important.

  I stared out over the moonlit bay, wishing things were really that easy.

  22

  I arose early the following Saturday, already thinking about my upcoming bike ride that morning with Mike. Forgoing my customary run, I donned my robe and worked at my computer until five-thirty, then slipped downstairs to the kitchen for a light breakfast of cereal and fruit. Afterward I crept back up the staircase, treading quietly. Upon returning to my dorm room, I shrugged off my robe and pulled on shorts, a tee shirt, and my running shoes, then tied a green nylon jacket around my waist.

  The numerals on my desktop clock read: 5:51 AM. Time to go. After turning off my computer, I made my way back to the ground floor and stepped outside, waiting on the front landing. The sun was barely up. I donned my jacket, glad I had brought it. Minutes later Mike’s Toyota pickup pulled to the curb, a pair of mountain bikes piled in the truck bed.

  Leaning across the passenger seat, Mike peered up at the dorm, waving as he spotted me. I waved back, then descended the stairs and slid into the front seat beside him. Closing the door, I noticed the dark aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

  “Morning,” said Mike, handing me a tall paper cup with a Starbuck’s logo on the side. “I didn’t know how you take it, so I left it black,” he added, shooting an appreciative glance at my bare legs.

  “Black’s perfect,” I replied, enjoying the warmth of the drink in my hands. Taking a sip, I inspected Mike over the rim of my cup, noting his colorful, long-sleeved racing shirt and tight-fitting biking shorts that accented the muscles of his thighs. His hair was brushed back from his forehead and looked damp, as if he had just stepped from the shower.

  “I read your short story last night,” he said as he dropped the Toyota into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Sorry it took me so long to get to it, but I’ve been jammed up at work and spending every other spare second making last-minute changes to my film.”

  “No problem,” I said. Mike had called Thursday to confirm our ride, and I knew from our brief phone conversation that he was still struggling to ready his documentary for the Labor Day showing in Telluride. “At least you read it. What did you think?”

  “First off,” Mike said apologetically, “I don’t usually like science fiction—”

  “Everybody says that,” I interrupted. “Though for the life of me I can’t understand why. Half the successful movies made over the past twenty years have been based on science fiction, especially the blockbusters. Did you like the Star Wars series?”

  “Of course. I—”

  “The Terminator? Close Encounters? Jurassic Park?”

  “Sure. What I’m trying—”

  “E.T., Back to the Future, The Matrix, Star Trek, Alien, 2001, Aliens, Blade Runner, Avatar—”

  “Ali, will you be quiet for a second? I’m trying to say your story blew me away.”

  “Oh.”

  “It wasn’t what I expected. The setting was weird, but the people were real and your characters really got to me. Where’d you get the idea—a father who can’t accept a deformity in his child, and as a result he winds up losing everything he loves?”

  “I made it up.”

  “You named it Daniel’s Song. Any connection to your father?”

  “No,” I said quickly.

  “Well, wherever you got the idea, I liked your story. I liked it a lot. You’re good, Ali. Really good.”

  “Thanks,” I said, as usual more uncomfortable with praise than censure.

  “I’d like to read something else of yours sometime.”

  When I didn’t reply, Mike obligingly changed the subject. “I enjoyed meeting
your parents last weekend. Especially your mom. How’s she doing?”

  “Getting stronger every day,” I answered, recalling the disastrous luncheon date I’d had with Mom on Wednesday. After her follow-up visit at St. John’s, we had met for lunch at the Santa Monica Mall. When I questioned Mom about her checkup, she had seemed distant, saying that everything had gone all right but adding that she’d made an appointment to see a bone-marrow transplant team on Friday. At Dr. Kratovil’s suggestion, she was having this new consult done at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center, rather than at St. John’s. Because I recalled from my discussion with Dr. Kratovil that a bone-marrow consult wasn’t scheduled to take place, if at all, until after Mom’s second round of chemo, I had queried her about it. Instead of answering, Mom instead had started in anew questioning my plans for the future. And as usual when that topic arose, our conversation had quickly degenerated.

  Mike turned left at the light on Sunset. “I’m glad to hear she’s improving,” he said.

  “Me, too. I’ll give her your best when I see her. I’m having dinner at the beach with my family tonight.”

  “Well, say hi to your dad for me, too. And tell him thanks again for the party.”

  “Sure,” I said, my mind still on my mother.

  For the next few minutes we rode in silence. I sipped my coffee; Mike concentrated on the road. He turned right when we reached the light at Mandeville Canyon, then took a left on Westridge Road. Remembering my drive up the same route with Max Riemann several weeks back, I looked out the window, watching as a line of houses bordering the road slipped past. As we ascended higher on the ridge, the sun finally broke over the canyon’s rim. Moments later I stared curiously as we passed the Frenches’ estate. Outside their gate, a radio patrol car with a private security company logo on its door sat angled across the driveway. Otherwise, the grounds looked deserted.

  Noticing my glance, Mike asked, “Anything new on the French story at CBS?”

  “Well, for one, the tabloid reporters have finally stopped waylaying me outside the studio.”

  “That’s good,” said Mike. “Any other developments?”

  “A few,” I conceded. “On a hunch, I got the name of Jordan’s family doctor from someone at her medical insurance company. Believe it or not, contacting Jordan’s physician was an angle no one else at the news station had considered.”

  Mike smiled. “You’re quite the detective, aren’t you? Like father, like daughter.”

  I smiled back self-consciously. “Something like that. Anyway, Jordan’s doctor admitted that the police had interviewed him, but otherwise he didn’t want to talk. I kept him on the line and eventually got him to open up. He said that the questions he had been asked by investigators fell into two general categories: Had Jordan shown any physical signs of sexual abuse, and had he observed or had reported to him any psychological manifestations associated with childhood abuse—rebellious behavior, nightmares, depression—that sort of thing. According to him, the answer to everything was no. But in view of what happened, he could just be covering up any oversight he’d made.”

  “You mean because he didn’t report it?”

  “Correct. I thought it was a good lead,” I went on. “Lauren gave it to Brent,” I added.

  Mike took a left onto a side street, then another on Queensferry Road. “Actually, I caught Brent’s piece on Jordan’s doctor last night,” he said. “It was good.”

  “Yeah. It was terrific.”

  “The Jordan French case is his story, you know.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Ali, for someone like you to have worked her way up the news ladder as far as you have in, what is it—five weeks?—is unheard of. Well, maybe not unheard of. I can remember a few instances when someone’s rocketed up the ranks almost overnight, but it’s rare, especially for someone as young as you. You’ve had a spot aired nationally, attracted management’s attention in New York—at least from what I hear on the grapevine—and earned your press credentials. Incidentally, congratulations on that. You’re on your way. Just be patient.”

  “Not something I’m noted for.”

  “You are ambitious, aren’t you?”

  Again, I didn’t reply.

  Riding the brakes, Mike coasted down a long incline, pulling to a stop at a dead end at the bottom of Queensferry. After parking a dozen yards from a wooden barrier blocking the road, Mike killed the engine, exited, and made his way to the rear of the pickup. Noticing that he hadn’t brought a jacket, I left my windbreaker in the truck and helped him unload the bikes. Mike’s bike had a brushed aluminum frame, knobby tires, suspension shocks on both front and rear wheels, and a water bottle mounted on one of the frame tubes. The bike he brought for me was slightly smaller, with a water bottle and similar tires but shocks on only the front fork.

  After performing a quick equipment check on the bikes, Mike reached into the truck and grabbed bike helmets and two pairs of biking gloves from the rear seat. “Here, put these on,” he said, handing me a helmet and a pair of gloves. Then, bending to loosen a clamp securing my bike seat, “You know how to work the gears?”

  I pulled on the fingerless gloves Mike had given me, then donned my helmet and fastened the chin strap. Placing my hands on the handlebar grips, I inspected the shifters that controlled the bike’s twenty-one gears. “Left hand shifts the front chain rings, right hand does the back sprocket?”

  “Correct,” said Mike. “You’ll probably be in granny gear most of the time while we’re climbing, so shifting shouldn’t be a problem. Oh, and on the way down, be careful using the front brake,” he advised, raising my seat. “Give it too much and you’ll wind up doing a Polish wheelie—headfirst over the handlebars.”

  “Granny? As in grandmother?”

  “That’s the lowest gear.”

  “I figured,” I said, pumping the brake levers to make sure which was which. It had been years since I’d ridden a bike, and even then my only experience had been on bikes designed for the pavement. Nonetheless, I felt confident I would be able to handle things. After all, riding a bike was, well—like riding a bike, right?

  “Get on and see how it feels.”

  I placed a foot on the left pedal, pushed off, and swung over my other leg. At first the seat Mike had adjusted felt too high, but as I pedaled I soon found that the elevated seat position allowed my legs to extend almost completely on each downstroke, letting me use the full strength of my thighs.

  “Looks fine,” said Mike. He pulled on his own gloves and donned his helmet. “Let’s do it.”

  I dismounted and followed Mike through a narrow gate designed to prevent the passage of motorized vehicles, rolling my bike vertically on the back wheel through the barrier. From hikes I had taken in the Santa Monica Mountains years back, I knew we were entering a portion of Topanga State Park where the use of trails and fire roads was limited to hikers, bike riders, and equestrians—an uneasy mix that shared the park in a spirit of begrudging tolerance. Nevertheless, as there had been no other cars parked at the bottom of Queensferry, I suspected it was unlikely that we would encounter anyone on our way up Sullivan Canyon at that early hour.

  Once past the gate Mike threw a leg over his bike, clicking the metal inserts on the bottoms of his biking shoes into the pedals. As I remounted my own bike, Mike pulled over, bracing himself against the trunk of a eucalyptus tree. “We’ll be heading up an old dirt service road that the gas company restored some years back,” he said. “Thanks to the rains, it has mostly washed out again and is single-track most of the way up. There’s water, rough ground, sand, shale, and plenty of climbing. There’s also no rush, so we can stop to rest anytime you want. Just let me know.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I replied. “We’ll stop when you want.”

  Initially the ride proceeded down a short slope, following the last of the Queensferry pavement to a creek a hundred yards distant. At first, as I accelerated through the cool mountain air, I regretted not bringing
my jacket. I regretted it doubly when we reached the creek bed and lost the sun. But as we turned right and started up the canyon, following what seemed to be little more than a footpath winding through the gravel and sand of the streambed, I quickly forgot about being cold. The ride was going to be a lot harder than I thought.

  Unlike the chaparral-covered mountain slopes above, this lowermost stretch of Sullivan Canyon was dense with sycamore, oak, and cottonwood. Here and there, as the trail proceeded through banks of blackberry bramble and native grasses, I spotted sporadic flashes of color—the oranges, yellows, and blues of spring’s resident wildflowers somehow persisting into the heat of summer. With the exception of several rain squalls that had pelted the Southland during July, Southern California had received little precipitation since spring. Despite the lack of rain, a spill of water still ran in the streambed, collecting in shallow pools behind logs and rocks. Though the creek now appeared tame, deep erosive cuts in the banks attested to the stream’s power in flood. The flow of the creek gradually increased as Mike and I climbed higher, and on numerous occasions we were forced to cross. Following Mike’s lead, I pedaled through each ford without falling, enjoying the cooling splash on my legs.

  Despite the shade of the canyon and our occasional bracing charges through the water, I was soon perspiring heavily. Patches of perspiration stained my tee shirt under my arms and soaked a dark V on my chest. Worse, sweat kept trickling into my eyes, the salty sting an increasing irritation. My breathing growing labored, I repeatedly wiped my face on my shoulder, a risky maneuver while negotiating tricky terrain that more than once almost sent me careening into the streambed. Still, I refused to call a rest.

  Mike continued smoothly up the steepening trail, the muscles of his arms and shoulders standing out under his shirt like strands of a hawser, his steel-corded legs pumping like pistons. Glancing back from time to time, he occasionally slowed to let me close the gap between us. Noticing this, I strained even harder, determined to keep him in sight. Running had toughened my body, but I quickly realized that my morning jogs had merely conditioned me for running, not biking, which seemed to require a whole different set of muscles. The low gear I was using had seemed ridiculously easy at first. Now, my legs turning to rubber, I wished I could drop the gear ratio down another notch. Maybe several.