by Steve Gannon
Just then Mom called up from the music room below. “Dan, has Ali arrived yet? Nate and Travis are starving.”
Dad crossed to the window. “She’s here,” he called down. “C’mon up. Let’s eat.”
Minutes later we all gathered at the dining room table. I sat next to Nate, Mom took her customary place beside Travis, and Dad sat at the head of the table. Dorothy, who had returned to Santa Barbara the day after the beach party, was conspicuously absent. Though she would be rejoining us when Mom began her second phase of chemotherapy, everyone already missed her, especially Nate.
Dinner that night, normally a high point for our family, seemed hollow and reserved. Like an unwanted guest, a shadow of uncertainty sat at our table, its presence sensed by everyone. The meal, a thick lentil stew, squares of cornbread, and a mixed green salad that Mom had prepared, was hearty and filling. Nevertheless, our family’s customarily freewheeling conversation fell flat at every turn. Dad tried to be attentive, but his concentration drifted repeatedly during a discussion of Nate’s AAU baseball finals later that month. Even Mom had trouble keeping her mind on Travis’s rundown of the pieces he planned to perform for his remaining summer recitals.
Throughout this I kept my eyes down, guiltily suspecting that the family tension was because of me. Eating like a robot, I reviewed my confrontation with Dad, still puzzled by his reaction. Though I had no intention of disclosing anything I had learned from his murder book, I knew that in examining it I had been completely and unforgivably out of line. Dad’s reaction had been justified, but his anger had been nowhere near as scathing as I’d expected … or deserved. He had even tacitly agreed to my presence at the reservoir the next day. It had seemed as if his mind were elsewhere.
Following dinner, Nate and I cleared the dishes. Dad brewed a pot of coffee while Travis helped Mom serve pecan pie and ice cream for dessert. Ten minutes later we all rejoined at the table. Nate finished his ice cream and pie in record time, and shortly afterward asked to be excused.
“Please wait till we’re all done, honey,” said Mom, taking a sip of coffee.
“Callie needs a walk,” said Nate. “She hasn’t been out much all day.”
Hearing the word “walk,” our yellow Labrador looked up from her wicker basket in the corner, quizzically raising her ears.
“You can take her out in a minute.”
“Aw, Mom …”
My mother glanced at Dad. From my place across the table, I saw something pass between them. Dad nodded, covering Mom’s hand with his.
Mom took a breath, then slowly let it out. “Nate, there’s something I need to tell you, something I need to tell you all.”
“What is it?” I asked nervously.
Mom glanced once more at Dad. “When I went in for my checkup on Wednesday, I got some bad news,” she said quietly. “Dr. Kratovil says I’m undergoing a relapse.”
Abruptly, I realized why my mother had seemed so preoccupied during our lunch at the mall.
“What does that mean?” asked Travis.
“It means my cancer has come back.”
“I thought the chemotherapy was working.”
“So did I,” said Mom. “Most patients achieve remission following the first round of chemo. Apparently I’m one of the ones who don’t.”
“What about more chemo?” I asked.
“Dr. Kratovil thinks that would be a waste of time, even with a new combination of drugs,” Mom answered. “She thinks we need to do something different.”
I shook my head. “But—”
“Things aren’t all bad,” Mom interrupted, forcing a smile. “I had a conference with the UCLA transplant team. They think I’m a good candidate for a bone-marrow graft. Unfortunately, given the aggressiveness of my cancer, there’s no hope of purifying my own stem cells for the procedure. I’ll need a donor. They’re hunting for someone with my exact marrow type. If one isn’t found soon, I’ll have to ask you, Ali.”
Shocked by the news of my mother’s relapse, I swallowed hard, feeling as if the floor had dropped out from under me. “You don’t have to ask, Mom. Of course I’ll do it. I’m just glad I’m a good enough match.”
“You aren’t perfect, as we all know,” said Mom, making an attempt at humor. “They may want to do a few more tests on you, but Dr. Kratovil thinks you’re close enough.”
“Slow down,” said Travis. “I don’t understand how this transplant is supposed to work.”
“It’s fairly simple,” said Mom, seeming relieved to be shifting to a technical discussion of her treatment. “Some of my white blood cells are reproducing out of control. Prior to my bone-marrow graft, I’ll receive X-rays and a high dose of chemotherapy that will kill all of my white blood cells, good and bad alike. Permanently. The cancer will be gone, but then I’ll no longer have a functioning immune system. That’s where the bone-marrow graft comes in. I’ll be given someone else’s white blood cells, and they will reproduce and take over the job for my missing ones.”
“If a transplant is that easy, why didn’t they just do one to begin with?” asked Travis.
“Well, it’s not that easy,” Mom admitted. “There can be complications.”
I recalled the transplant information I had read on the internet. As Mom said, there could be complications. Until the graft took, assuming it did, the recipient was subject to any number of life-threatening infections. Worse, a transplant had to match its host closely or the graft cells would try to reject their new body, resulting in a condition known as graft-versus-host disease. From what I had been able to glean from my research, a bone-marrow transplant was a risky, potentially fatal procedure.
“What kind of complications?” Travis persisted.
Mom’s control momentarily slipped, and for a split second I saw in her eyes the same flicker of doubt I had detected on the morning of the luau. “I did some reading on that, Trav,” I said quickly. “For one, a transplant recipient often gets the allergies of the donor. Imagine, my white cells might make Mom allergic to housework, Brussels sprouts, foreign movies, and cleaning her room. Worse, she could wind up with my biggest allergy of all—hating being told what to do.”
Though no one laughed, Mom gave me a grateful smile. “Things can always go wrong, Trav,” she said softly. “But I’m in good hands. I’m going to recover.”
“I know, Mom,” said Travis. “When will this be done?”
“My insurance authorization should come through soon, but the doctors want to give me a few weeks to regain my strength before proceeding,” Mom answered. “I’ll probably be admitted to UCLA before the end of the month. There was some talk of waiting until a better-matched donor than Ali turns up. Unfortunately, that could take months or even years, if it happens at all. Because Allison’s marrow type is acceptably close to mine, the doctors think the benefits of waiting are outweighed by the dangers of allowing the disease to progress. They want to proceed as quickly as possible. They’re going to keep looking for a better match, but if they don’t find someone soon, Allison will be my donor. I’m telling you all this so you’ll know what’s happening. But I don’t want you to worry,” she added. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“You said that before,” said Nate, who until now had remained silent. “You said your treatments were going to make you better.”
“I know, honey.”
“The chemo was all for nothing.” Nate shook his head. “You’ll never get better, will you?”
Mom started to tell Nate he was wrong. Seeing the look on his face, she stopped midsentence. And this second time that her guard was down, we all saw her uncertainty, reading it in the tightness of her lips and the slump of her shoulders as plainly as if she had confessed her fears aloud.
Head down, Nate rose and walked from the room. Callie climbed from her bed and trotted after him, close at his heels. A moment later we heard the bang of the downstairs door out to the beach. With a sigh, Dad pushed away from the table.
I stood quickly. “I’ll
get him.”
“That’s okay, Ali.”
“No, I want to,” I insisted, hurrying from the room before my father could object.
After descending the stairs and making my way outside, I crossed the deck to the sea wall. Stepping to the sand below, I gazed up and down the deserted beach. By now the sun had painted a final smear of orange on the western horizon; to the east, the evening star glittered over Santa Monica like a distant diamond.
Not spotting Nate, I headed to the water, where the ebbing tide had exposed a wide swath of sand. Past the shoreside berm I noted a fresh set of tracks bordering the ocean. Walking briskly, I followed the trail. Rounding a rocky outcrop, I spotted Nate sitting on the sand fifty yards up, Callie at his feet. To me, something about their lone figures looked as defeated and forlorn as an abandoned farmhouse. Nate glanced up as I approached, then rubbed his eyes and resumed staring at the ocean. Callie gave me a perfunctory tail-thump, then lay her muzzle on her paws.
I stopped beside my brother, not knowing what to say.
“Go away,” Nate said.
Ignoring his order, I sat beside him.
“Go away.”
“Listen, Nate,” I said gently. “Normally I save being nice to you for special occasions. This is one of those times. I want to help.”
Nate scooped up a handful of stones and began flicking them at the water.
I rested a hand on Callie’s head, working my fingers into her soft yellow fur. “Nate, I know we haven’t been piling up the Kodak memories in our family lately,” I went on, “but you’re not helping Mom by acting this way.”
“You’re one to talk,” Nate spat, angrily winging a rock at the ocean.
“Just because Mom and I don’t get along sometimes doesn’t mean—”
“Shut up, Ali. You don’t care about anybody but yourself.”
“That’s not true, Nate.”
“Yeah, right.”
Without thinking, I took my brother’s shoulders and turned him to face me. “I do care about Mom,” I said fiercely. “Don’t ever say I don’t.”
Nate glared back, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
“I don’t know why Mom and I go at each other like we do,” I said. “I wish things were different. Trav gets along with Dad, now. Maybe later, Mom and I will too.”
Nate shrugged free of my grip. “What if there isn’t a later?”
“There will be. Mom will get better.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she has to.”
“That’s not good enough.” Nate turned away. “You know what, Ali?” he went on. “I just realized something. All these years Dad has been telling us that if we wanted something bad enough, no matter what it was, we’d get it.”
I didn’t respond.
“You wanna make the team, you gotta want it, bucko,” Nate went on harshly, lowering his voice in a surprisingly passable imitation of our father’s. “But you gotta want it bad, sport. Hard work, determination, and desire will get you anything you want. Anything.” Nate gazed out at the waves. “He was lying. You don’t always get what you want. No matter how bad you want it.”
Again I remained silent, taken aback by my brother’s bitterness. Nate had always been the most optimistic member of our family, able to find silver in even the darkest cloud. I sighed, struck by the thought that even with those you loved, it was impossible to ever fully know another person.
A troop of terns skittered along the shoreline, their curved beaks probing the sand for a final morsel before nightfall. As they passed, an offshore breeze whistled up the beach. Hearing the wind before it reached us, Nate and I both lowered our heads against the pelting grains of sand that followed. The gust plucked at our clothes. When it was gone, we sat without speaking.
Slowly a sprinkling of stars crept into the darkening sky, leaving only a faint tinge of red on the western horizon. At last I rose to my feet. “C’mon, Nate,” I said, brushing sand from my legs. “I’m cold. Let’s go back.”
“You go. I’ll see you later.”
“I’m not going home without you.” When Nate didn’t respond, I took his arm and tried to pull him to his feet. I quickly gave up, aware for the first time that my little brother was no longer little. Somehow, while I hadn’t been looking, the skinny younger sibling I’d always been able to push around had grown into a strong young man.
“Please, Nate,” I said. “Mom needs you right now. She needs us all.”
Nate’s face opened for an instant, then closed. Wordlessly, he stood and began walking slowly down the beach toward the house. Callie bounded to her feet and took her place out front, leading the way back. I dropped in beside Nate, walking with him along the water’s edge. Halfway to the house Nate glanced over at me, then once more gazed straight ahead. “Ali?”
“What?”
“Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Sure, Nate,” I said quietly, slipping my hand into his. “That’s what big sisters are for.”
24
During the night a tropical storm that had been stalled for days over the Pacific finally moved onshore, and first light revealed banks of thunderheads squatting over the mountains, with more threatening on the horizon. His overcoat collar turned up against a raw wind gusting from the north, Kane stood on a narrow fire road that led down to Encino Reservoir, staring out over the wind-chopped water.
Allison had been right. There were six locks on the chain securing the upper gate: the same five present on the lower gate … and an unauthorized sixth. Calls to the various agencies confirmed that none of them had placed an extra padlock. Kane had suspected all along that the distance to the reservoir from surrounding neighborhoods made it impractical for someone to have carried in a body, even the body of a child. No, whoever dumped Jordan French’s body had cut the gate chain and then driven to the reservoir—or at least to a spot nearby. And upon leaving, he had repaired the break in the chain by inserting an extra padlock. Kane shook his head, berating himself for not having checked the upper gate himself.
Turning from the reservoir, Kane glanced up the dirt road behind him. At the top of the ridge he could make out several patrol cars from the Van Nuys Division. An SID unit was there too, its members carefully removing the chain and its extra lock from the upper gate. On the road in between, officers were combing the brush. Below him, Deluca, Banowski, and several other members of the West L.A. homicide unit were working their way up from the water. The odds were unlikely that any tire tracks, footprints, or other evidence would be discovered at this late date—especially considering that the area had been well tromped during earlier canvasses. Nevertheless, it had to be done.
Again Kane swept his eyes over the choppy water at the south end of the reservoir, glad to be working. Activity kept his mind from thoughts of Catheryn, kept him from obsessing about her treatment. Focusing on the investigation, he attempted to place himself in the killer’s shoes. It was probably night when he dumped the body, Kane reasoned. Where would he have chosen?
Kane narrowed his eyes, scanning the surrounding area.
Someplace not too far from the road. Someplace hidden.
A quarter mile from where Kane stood, the access road dropped sharply, joining another road that twisted up from the valley. Near this junction lay the easiest approach to the water, and the very section of shoreline where they had found the body. From where Kane stood, it looked open and exposed.
Not there. The killer would have wanted more privacy for what he had to do.
Kane started walking. He had originally insisted that in addition to examining the outer fence and gates for signs of tampering, the inner fence also be scrutinized. Areas in both were in disrepair, but no suspicious breaches had been found. Miles of outer and inner fencing circled the reservoir, however—offering ample opportunity for something to have been overlooked. On a hunch, Kane began rechecking the interior chain-link fence. Along the way he detoured around several patches of poison oak, recalling t
he rash he had noticed on Mr. French’s hand.
Ten minutes later he found a cut in the inner fence.
It was hidden behind a clump of sumac, invisible unless viewed from precisely the right angle. After pushing aside some branches, Kane knelt and examined the cut. Someone had made a vertical three-foot incision in the fence, then repositioned the severed sections. Kane leaned closer, noticing something caught on a strand of wire at the bottom. Using a ballpoint pen, he teased free a tattered tag of black plastic. Trash bag? he wondered. He gazed at the reservoir. The slope leading down to the water was steep, but not too steep for someone determined to make it.
After withdrawing an evidence bag from his pocket, Kane inserted the torn piece of plastic he had found, stuffed the baggy into his coat, and returned to the fire road. He arrived in time to see Deluca and Banowski approaching from below. Deluca was telling a joke, as usual punctuating his story with animated arm sweeps, his expressive Italian hands shaping his words. “So the grizzled old RAF officer lecturing to the women’s group says, “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct. A Fokker is definitely a German aircraft. However, these particular Fokkers were flying Messerschmitts.’”
“Good one,” snorted Banowski, nodding to Kane as they arrived. “Reminds me of the one about the—”
“Save it,” said Kane, cutting him off. “Which one of you comedians brought the handset?”
“I did,” said Deluca, reaching into his coat and pulling out a mobile radio. “What’s up?”
“I found a break in the fence.” Kane pointed to the clump of sumac concealing the cut. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide it.”
“So our man didn’t drive all the way to the water?” Banowski said doubtfully, glancing toward the spot Kane had indicated. “He cut the fence and hiked down? Why?”
Kane shrugged. “Who knows? Things might have looked too exposed by the dam for his taste. It’s also possible he didn’t realize that DWP workers had left the inner gate unlocked. Or maybe he thought there was a night watchman. Whatever the case, I think our guy dragged the body down to the water right there.”
“And the corpse broke loose from whatever was anchoring it and floated to where we found it,” Deluca added. “Could’ve happened.”
