Here and Gone

by Haylen Beck

  Sean got to his knees, the grit burning the heels of his hands, and turned to see the pistol aimed at his head, only feet away.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Collins said.

  He froze, watched as she reached down to grab the back of Louise’s T-shirt, haul her upright, put the pistol to her head. Louise stared at him, her eyes and mouth wide. The knees of her jeans torn, the skin grazed and bloody.

  ‘Do you want me to kill her?’ Collins said, her eyes glistening with tears and anger. ‘Is that what you want?’

  Sean held his hands up and out, a gesture of surrender. He shook his head.

  Collins let go of Louise, pointed her pistol at the ground. Her shoulders rose and fell as she fought for breath. She sniffed and wiped her face with the back of her free hand, leaving smears of dirt on her skin. ‘All right, then,’ she said, a quiver in her voice. ‘Let’s go.’

  Sean helped Louise up, became aware of the sting of his elbows, the tears in his own jeans. Collins pointed back up the slope, and he took his sister’s hand, started the climb up toward the van. Collins trudged behind them. On the way, he stooped to pick up Gogo, handed him to Louise. She clutched the pink rabbit to her chest as she sniffed and pouted.

  They remained silent as he hoisted Louise up into the van. He followed, careful of splinters from the plywood flooring. Once inside, Sean gathered Louise into his arms. She curled there in his lap and he began to rock her, the way Mom had done for him when he was scared. He turned his head, saw Deputy Collins watching him, saw the fear on her face.

  She raised a cell phone, and Sean heard the synthetic whirr and click as she took a photograph.

  Then she slammed the doors closed and terrible darkness swallowed them.

  7

  AUDRA PACED TO one end of the cell, turned, paced to the other. Turned again. And again. An hour had passed, maybe more, and her throat burned raw from screaming. She had shouted and yelled until her lungs ached, until her eyes watered.

  There were no more tears, but fear and anger still chased through her mind, each threatening to take over, to shred the last of her sanity. It was all she could do to keep them in check, and exhaustion made her want to curl up on one of the bunks and disappear into herself. But somehow she kept upright, kept pacing.

  When Whiteside had said those two words, she had stood still and silent for a few moments before asking, ‘What do you mean?’

  Whiteside had said nothing, had simply turned away, back toward the door of the custody suite, through it, and locked it behind him. Her screams had reverberated between the walls until she could scream no more. Now all she had was forward motion, one foot in front of the other. That or go crazy in here. So she kept moving.

  The rattle of keys froze her in place, her back to the door. She heard it open, heard the sheriff’s heavy footsteps on the concrete, then the door closing again.

  ‘You done hollering?’ he asked.

  Audra turned, watched him approach the bars. ‘What did you mean?’ she asked, her voice a hoarse croak.

  ‘Mean about what?’ he asked, his face blank. Bored, even.

  ‘What you said about my children. Where are they?’

  He leaned his forearm against the bars, stared back at her. ‘You and me are going to have a talk.’

  She slapped the bars with her palm, hot pain in her bones. ‘Where are my children?’

  ‘But first, you need to calm down.’

  ‘Fuck you. Where are my children?’

  ‘If you calm down, then we can discuss that.’

  She tried to shout, but her voice cracked. ‘Where are my children?’

  Whiteside pushed himself away from the bars, said, ‘All right, have it your way. We can talk about it another time.’

  He turned and headed back to the door.

  Audra grabbed the bars and said, ‘No, please, come back.’

  He looked over his shoulder. ‘You ready to be calm?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding hard. ‘I’m calm.’

  ‘All right.’ He took the keys from his belt as he came back to the cell, pointed to the bunk at the far end. ‘Sit down over there for me.’

  She hesitated, and he said, ‘Go on, sit down, or we can talk another time.’

  Audra went to the bunk and did as she was told. As he slipped the key into the lock, he told her to sit on her hands, and she obeyed. He pulled the sliding door back, stepped inside, and closed it again. He leaned his shoulder against the bars and stowed the keys away.

  ‘You calm?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Okay. Now, I’m going to lay this out for you as best I can, and I want you to stay right there and take it easy. You think you can do that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now, I’m going to talk with you about your children, and you aren’t going to like it. But even so, I want you to keep calm. Will you try real hard to keep calm?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, her voice a whisper she could barely hear herself.

  Whiteside examined his fingernails for a few moments, a crease in his brow. Then he took a deep breath and looked her in the eye.

  ‘See, as far as I can remember, there were no children in your car.’

  Audra shook her head. ‘What are you talking about? Sean and Louise, they were in the car when you pulled me over. The deputy, whatever her name was, she came, she took them away.’

  ‘That is not my recollection,’ Whiteside said. ‘What I remember is I pulled you over, you were alone. I radioed Deputy Collins to come assist me in searching you, and I asked her to get hold of Emmet to come tow your car. We waited, he came, I brought you here and booked you in. No children.’

  ‘Why are you saying this? You know it’s not true. They were there. You saw them. You talked to them. For Christ’s sake, please, just tell—’

  Whiteside pushed away from the bars, put his hands on his hips. ‘Thing is, what you’re saying presents me with a problem.’

  ‘Please, just—’

  ‘Quiet, now.’ He held a hand up. ‘I’m talking here. You’re telling me you had children in that car when you left New York. Now you’re here in Silver Water, and no children. Assuming you did set off with those kids, I have to ask you: Where are they?’

  ‘Your deputy, she—’

  ‘Mrs Kinney, what did you do with your children?’

  Audra heard a distant noise like a stampede or a hurricane or a thousand screaming animals. Cold to the very center of her soul, like she’d fallen into an icy lake. She stared back at him, the sound of her own heartbeat building inside her, drowning out everything, even the distant wild clamor.

  Whiteside said something. She didn’t know what. She couldn’t hear him.

  Then the distance between them disappeared in a blur and she was on him, her fists smashing into his face, and he was falling, and she was on his chest, her nails scraping at his skin, and then her hands were fists again, and she brought them down and down again as his head turned first one way then the other, her blows glancing off his cheeks.

  She didn’t know how long she straddled him, striking him again and again, but she didn’t stop until she felt his meaty hand at the center of her chest, between her breasts, and she knew she could do this man no harm, not really, he was too strong. Then he pushed, and she flew backward, weightless for a moment before crashing to the floor, jarring her elbows, the back of her head cracking on the concrete.

  Through the black dots in her vision, Audra saw Whiteside rise over her, then drop down, his big fists, a telescopic baton in one. She brought her hands and knees up by instinct, and he whipped the baton across her shins. The pain cut through everything, bright and fierce, and she would have screamed if she’d had the voice for it. Then those big hands gripped her shoulders, flipped her over like she was nothing, and he planted his knee in the small of her back.

  Audra tried to draw a breath so she could plead, beg for mercy, but she could barely gasp. Whiteside grabbed her left wrist, pulled it b
ack, twisting her shoulder in its socket. He forced the wrist up her back, and she felt certain he would tear her arm clean off, before she felt the metal circle the wrist. Holding her left hand in place, he took her right wrist and did the same, the pain so great her consciousness wavered.

  When both wrists were bound, he held them there, and leaned down so she felt his breath against her ear.

  ‘Your children are gone,’ he whispered. ‘If you can accept that, you might survive this. If you can’t? Well …’

  And then his weight lifted from her, the cell door opening and closing, the jangle of keys.

  Alone on the floor, Audra wept.

  8

  DANNY LEE TOOK the stairs two at a time, three flights up. He paused at the top, let his heartrate settle. Then he walked along the corridor, counting off the doors in the dim light, until he reached 406. The number the boy’s parents had given him.

  A good boy, Mrs Woo had said. But he’d changed lately. Stopped talking, become sullen and quiet. His respect for them gone.

  Danny knew the story. He’d heard it plenty of times before.

  The door rattled along with the bass notes from inside, hip-hop music rumbling within. Must drive the neighbors crazy, he thought. Not that the neighbors would complain.

  He made a fist, hammered the door, and waited. No answer. He hammered the door again. Still no answer. Once more with his fist, and a couple of kicks to get the point across.

  Now the door opened a few inches, revealing the face of a young man Danny vaguely recognized. One of Harry Chin’s boys.

  ‘What the fuck?’ the young man said. ‘You want to lose your hand, just knock one more time, motherf—’

  The sole of Danny’s shoe hit the door hard, sending the Chin boy staggering back. He barely kept himself from falling, cursing as his hand grabbed at the wall.

  Danny stepped inside, surveyed the room. Half a dozen young men, counting the Chin boy, all staring back at him. Five of them sat on a couch and a pair of armchairs surrounding a coffee table laden with loose marijuana and rolled joints, a bag of coke, a few lines on the table’s glass top. Another bag of crystal meth, though it didn’t appear that any of them had partaken yet.

  The Chin boy had the wide-eyed look, the flaring nostrils and the sheen of sweat on his forehead that said he’d had at least a line or two of coke. But Danny didn’t care about him. His only concern was Johnny Woo, the youngest of the boys, who sat in the middle of the couch. A faint wisp of hair on his upper lip, pimples across his nose and forehead. A child, really.

  ‘Johnny, come with me,’ Danny said.

  Johnny said nothing.

  Danny heard a snick-click at his left ear. He turned his head, saw the Chin boy and the .38 in his hand, cocked and ready.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here,’ the Chin boy said, ‘before I take your head off.’

  Danny said nothing.

  ‘Yo, man,’ one of the other young men said. ‘That’s Danny Doe Jai.’

  The Chin boy turned to his friend. ‘Danny who?’

  A child, Danny reminded himself, nothing more. So easy. He simply reached up and grabbed the boy’s wrist, pushed it away, twisted, squeezed. The pistol dropped to the floor, a heavy clunk, and the boy fell to his knees. He squealed, and Danny squeezed harder. Felt bones grind beneath the flesh.

  Danny turned to the young man on the couch. ‘Don’t call me that.’

  The young man dropped his gaze, mumbled, ‘Sorry, Lee-sook.’

  The boys all nodded, called him uncle, showed the respect he was due. Danny returned his attention to the Chin boy.

  ‘Any reason why I shouldn’t break your goddamn arm?’ he asked.

  The boy whined. Danny twisted a little more, squeezed a little harder.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ he said.

  The boy opened and closed his mouth, said, ‘Sorry … Lee … sook.’

  Danny let go, and the boy collapsed onto the floor, hugging his wrist to his chest.

  Johnny Woo picked at his nails, didn’t look up.

  ‘Come on,’ Danny said. ‘Your parents are waiting for you.’

  Johnny lit a joint, took a long hit, and said, ‘Fuck you.’

  The other young men winced. One of them nudged Johnny’s elbow, said, ‘Just go, man. Do what Lee-sook says.’

  ‘Fuck you, I ain’t going nowhere. You nod your head and call him uncle all you want, go ahead and be a pussy. He don’t scare me.’

  ‘Listen to your friends,’ Danny said. ‘Let’s go.’

  Johnny took another hit, exhaled a long plume of smoke, and looked Danny in the eye. ‘Fuck. You.’

  Danny reached down, grabbed a leg of the coffee table, threw it aside, scattering green flakes and white powder. It crashed into the wall, shattering the glass. The other boys dived out of the way as Danny stepped forward and slapped the joint from Johnny’s mouth. He put a hand at either side of the kid’s throat, hoisted him up by his neck. Johnny gave one strangled croak as Danny dragged him across the room, then threw him against the wall. He slapped the boy again, rocking his head on his shoulders, bringing tears to his eyes.

  ‘You a tough guy now?’ Danny asked.

  Slapped him again, his hand powering through, even as Johnny tried to shield himself.

  ‘You a gangbanger?’

  Slap.

  ‘You ready to take me on?’

  Slap.

  ‘Go on.’

  Slap.

  ‘Go on and try, boy, if you’re such a big man.’

  Johnny slid down the wall, his hands over his head. ‘Stop, stop! I’m sorry! Stop!’

  Danny reached down, lifted Johnny up by his collar. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’

  As Johnny stumbled out through the door, Danny kicked him once in the ass, almost knocking him off his feet. He gave the other boys one last hard look. None of them returned it, suddenly more interested in their shoes or their fingernails. He followed Johnny out, closed the door behind him. Johnny looked back to him, a child now, seeking instruction.

  Danny pointed at the stairs and said, ‘Go.’

  The air was damp and cold out on Jackson Street, a breeze blowing straight in off San Francisco Bay. Danny pulled his jacket tight around him. He pushed Johnny between the shoulder blades, told him to keep walking. The boy wore nothing but a short-sleeved 49ers shirt, and Danny could almost see the goosebumps on his skin.

  They passed a beauty salon, lit up bright in the darkness, the sound of chattering women from inside. A seafood market, the ripe smell of fish and salt. It was relatively quiet here compared to the hubbub and the glare of Grant Avenue, where the sidewalks were perpetually crammed with Chinatown tourists. Less chance of the boy running and losing himself in the crowds.

  Johnny looked back over his shoulder. ‘Hey, why they call you Danny Doe Jai?’

  ‘Shut up and keep walking,’ Danny said.

  The boy looked back again. ‘Doe Jai. Knife Boy. You don’t get a name like that for nothing.’

  ‘Your mom told me you were a smart kid,’ Danny said. ‘Prove her right and shut your mouth.’

  ‘Come on, man, just tell—’

  Danny grabbed Johnny’s shoulder, spun him around, threw him against the shutters of a closed-down catering wholesaler. The metal rattled and boomed. Danny grabbed the boy’s throat in his right hand, squeezed his windpipe tight.

  Two young couples, Chinatown tourists, skipped out of the way, understanding this was none of their business.

  Danny brought his nose to the boy’s, their eyes two inches apart.

  ‘Ask me again,’ he said. ‘Just ask me one more time and I’ll show you why they call me Knife Boy.’

  The boy blinked and Danny eased off the pressure on his throat.

  ‘What?’ Danny asked. ‘You not interested anymore?’

  ‘No, Lee-sook,’ the boy croaked.

  ‘Good.’ Danny let him go, gave him another kick in the pants. ‘Now move your stupid ass.’

  A thirty-minute
walk – Johnny pouting and dragging his heels, Danny nudging his back – took them to the Woo house over in the Richmond. Mrs Woo answered the door, gasped, then called back into the house for her husband in Cantonese.

  ‘It’s Lee-gor! He’s brought Johnny home.’

  Mr Woo came to the door, nodded respectfully at Danny, gave his son a withering look. The boy said nothing as he slipped past his father into the hall where his mother waited. Mrs Woo tried to embrace him, but he shrugged her off and disappeared into the house.

  ‘Thank you, Lee-gor,’ she said, nodding, her eyes wet. ‘Thank you so much.’

  She elbowed Mr Woo’s flank, and he took his wallet from his pants. Two hundred-dollar bills. He took Danny’s wrist with his left hand, nodded again, pressed the money into the palm with his right. Danny’s pride might have told him to hand the two hundred dollars back, but his rational mind remembered the rent was due. He slipped the money into his pocket and gave a nod of thanks.

  ‘Keep an eye on him,’ he said. ‘He’s probably too embarrassed to go back to that apartment, but you never know. Don’t go too hard on him. Don’t give him a reason to leave again.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Mrs Woo said. She turned to her husband, gave him a hard stare. ‘Will we?’

  Mr Woo looked at the ground.

  ‘We don’t want trouble,’ Mr Woo said. ‘The Tong, will they …?’

  He couldn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Danny said.

  Less than an hour later, he found Pork Belly sitting on a corner stool at the Golden Sun bar, an upstairs drinking hole in a back alley off of Stockton Street. The kind of alley the tourists hurried past, not looking too closely at the men who lingered there.

  Pork Belly’s stomach sagged between his thighs, his shirt gaping between the buttons, showing the white undershirt beneath. A sheen of perspiration permanently glossed his forehead, and he kept a handkerchief on him at all times, should his brow be in need of mopping. Rumor was that Pork Belly’s grandmother, impressed by his appetite and girth, had given him the nickname as a child – Kow Yook, in her tongue – and it had stuck. He nursed a dark rum and sipped at a beer as he watched a college basketball game on the TV over the bar. Danny knew the rum was for show, that Pork Belly would make that glass last all night long, contenting himself with a mild beer buzz.