The Kaleidoscope

by B K Nault

  She pressed herself up against him, and Harold shrugged. “I guess if it’ll make him happy.”

  “I just thought of something, though.” Pepper’s smile faded.

  “What?”

  “If it is Harold’s father, and he is arrested, he could go to jail for a long time.”

  “Good,” Harold said. “He deserves it. And it wouldn’t be that long, he’s an old man.”

  Keith opened his phone. “If you’re sitting on information and don’t tell the police, you could be in trouble. Dad’ll know what to do.”

  ****

  The next Saturday, they pulled up to a modest ranch house in Van Nuys. Keith’s childhood was spent on a street lined with other mid-century homes. Swing sets out back, families walking dogs, and moms pushing strollers. Harold waited for Pepper to join him on the sidewalk.

  “I haven’t spent much time with Dad since the shooting, but mom said he’s lucid for a while, then he might go into what she calls the ‘laser-focus,’ ” Keith explained. “Like a part of his brain grabs onto something and won’t let go.”

  Harold knew the feeling.

  They walked up the driveway. “Like a superpower?” Pepper cocked her head, a smirk on her lips.

  “I guess you could say that.” Keith let out a low chortle.

  When Stan opened the door, Harold was glad to see the father and son hug briefly. It wasn’t much more than a quick pat on the back and a quick step away, as if they were out of practice. But it was still a moment he envied. An energy seemed to flow between them. Even a negative energy was more than he’d had with his own father in as long as he could recall.

  Stan’s short military-style haircut revealed traces of the scar from his cranial surgery. His firm biceps indicated a life spent keeping fit, still ready for action. Aware of his own wound, Harold felt an immediate kinship.

  “We’re glad to meet you, sir,” Harold said when they were all inside. “Thanks for agreeing to help us out.”

  Pepper and Harold sat on a sectional sofa in the living room while Stan poured glasses of iced tea. The tension was still thick, and Harold looked to Pepper for help.

  “Your mom has missed having you come over.” Stan sat down as they sipped their tea. The windows were open, and dogs barked over traffic noises. A plane on final into Burbank airport, Harold assumed, rumbled overhead.

  “Where is Mom?” Keith still hadn’t sat down.

  “Book club.”

  Harold imagined him as a young boy, waiting for Santa to fall down the sooty imitation brick chimney onto the shag carpet. His own experience with the jolly elf had been quashed when his grandmother scoffed at a six-year-old who still believed in the myth.

  “How’s…how is your friend?” Stan blurted.

  “You mean Frank, how is Frank?” Keith hit the question pretty hard. Pepper tipped her head sideways at him, and he started over. “He had a gig today. Celebrity wedding.” Keith cleared his throat. “I-I missed seeing you, too. Dad.”

  Stan ran a finger up and down his untouched tea. Tiny beads of condensation gathered into tears running down the side of the glass. “It’s just that when you told us about—your lifestyle, we had hoped…”

  “That it wasn’t true?” Pepper prompted.

  “Yes.”

  Harold expected fireworks, but instead, Stan dipped his head. “I was worried for your mom, she’s always wanted grandkids. And her friends at church—”

  “These are all just excuses, dad.” Keith knocked back his glass, spilling tea down his shirt. “Damn.”

  “Watch your language in this house, son.” Stan glared at him, and Keith started for the front door.

  “Wait!” Harold had had enough. Everyone’s heads spun to face him. “I’m the last person to offer advice to people and their parents, but if you could just set aside your personal differences for a few minutes…” He motioned at the chair next to him. He was painfully aware they were all waiting for him to say something meaningful and important. “I mean…” He searched for what that would be.

  Everyone brings different experiences to the table, even if they appear to be the same. Find a commonality to begin difficult negotiations.

  “Keith has told us how good you are at your job,” Harold began, and Pepper met his eye, picking up on his intent.

  “And that’s why he wanted to follow in your footsteps,” she continued the thought. “We rely on his professionalism to keep our building safe.”

  Harold sat up straight. “That’s right, why, just last week there was a-a…” He couldn’t think of anything important sounding.

  “There was nothing. We never have to worry.” Pepper rescued his lame attempt at building up Keith. “For heaven’s sake. Of all people you should be able to show them what’s really important between a father and son.”

  “I should?” Harold squeaked, and coughed. “Why?”

  Pepper pointed first at him, then to Keith. “Tell him.”

  Harold drained his glass. “She’s right. You have a dad to be angry with, to care about. To try and be like. I only wish I had my dad around. Keith, I get how much it hurts. But at least your dad hung around. And maybe he doesn’t get you, but he’s here now.”

  Pepper gave him one of her smiles that made his entire frame feel like it was made of warm water.

  Keith sat motionless.

  Harold swallowed. “And, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so, you raised a good son. He has a good life and a good job. And frankly, it’s not really any of your business what he does in his, uh, personal time.” Getting involved in other people’s personal lives didn’t come naturally to Harold, but he was beginning to feel responsible for how the ’scope was changing the lives around him.

  Pepper winked at him, encouraging him to continue, but he didn’t need it. Now he had momentum.

  “And I think it’s shameful that you hide behind excuses like your wife wants grandchildren, and shit like that.” Harold hadn’t intended to swear, but Stan didn’t even blink. “I’m proud to call them, Keith and Frank, my friends. You’re making a mistake pushing them away.”

  Stan was silent, and Keith absently brushed at a stain on the arm of his chair.

  A clock on the mantel ticked loudly, and Harold checked Pepper’s face. She was examining her manicure. While he watched, she must have sensed his gaze because she cut a glance at him and nodded toward the men. “Good job,” she mouthed.

  Without fully understanding what had just happened, Harold realized the father and son were about to turn a corner. “Thanks,” he mouthed back, but lifted and dropped his shoulders.

  Pepper just grinned and tapped his knee. “I could use a refill.” She jumped up. “Harry?”

  “Huh?”

  “Come with me. I may need help slicing lemons or something.”

  “Oh, right.” Harold followed her through a swinging door into the kitchen.

  When they were inside, Harold noticed her glass was still half full. “You didn’t need any tea.”

  “Shh.” Pepper sidled up to the door and peeked through a diamond-shaped window into the living room. In hushed whispers, she began giving a play-by-play, as if she was calling a golf game. “Keith is standing up now, his eye on the ball. He measures the room, the number of steps to his father. Stan gets up. Some heated words are exchanged, awkwardly from what I can tell. They circle, then stop. Stan reaches out, grabs his son’s arm. They’re shaking hands, wait folks, now they’re hugging.”

  Harold moved up behind her to see over her shoulder, but she kept up the commentary.

  “Stan’s arm is up, and now it’s completely around his son, patting his back, and oh! There it is, the father has kissed the son on the cheek.” She scooted back, bumping into Harold. “Act busy!”

  Harold picked up a paring knife and pretended to be cutting a lemon into slices, and Pepper opened the freezer door, but they both watched as Stan and Keith came in.

  “What’s say we get started on your questions.” Stan scraped h
is palms together. “I could use a juicy case to work on.”

  Pepper shut the freezer door and rocked forward on her toes to hug Keith, who gave Harold an A-okay sign behind her back. Harold shoved his hands deeper in his pockets.

  “We should get to work right away.” Stan led them down a hallway into a pine-paneled room converted into an office, apparently an addition cobbled onto the home’s original construction. Pepper and Harold each sat in a barrel-backed wooden chair, while Stan sat at an upholstered one in front of a second-hand desk. Three walls were covered with commendations and the other was lined with clipboards labeled with what Harold assumed were victim’s names.

  Stan was all business now, and Harold could picture him across one of those metal desks, firing questions and accusations until his suspect melted into a full confession.

  “Tell him why you think he really isn’t just a homeless guy,” Pepper urged Harold.

  Harold cocked his chin, popping his neck. “She wants me to tell you she thinks this guy might be my dad—”

  “Yes, Keith gave me some names, and I made some calls.” Stan cut him off, opening a fresh manila folder. “A buddy made me some copies of the crash report.” He flipped open the cover and scanned the top page. “You realize if he did cause the crash that killed your mother, he could face life in prison. And from what I can tell, that’s exactly what happened.”

  A hatred he’d nurtured for years into a solid mass of resistance enveloped Harold once again. “I know. If that’s how it turns out, I’ll lock the door and throw away the key myself.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sultry mountain air caressed Walter’s soul until, without knowing when, he’d forgotten about the days of blocking out street noises, wailing sirens, and feral cat fights outside his window. So often he’d fallen asleep to kitchen workers dropping saucepans clattering across the tiles floor overhead, he’d accepted them as part of life’s fabric.

  Beyond the cabin windows, breezes tickled the trees. The traffic here was made up of ground squirrels chittering, scampering across intersections of branches crisscrossing the canopy of pines rising high overhead. He intended to enjoy his Eden as long as possible.

  He’d chopped a knee-high stack of wood, split it into logs for burning, and they now dried in the sunshine to make hot fires that waned to embers until he stoked them alive in the morning for tea. Since the last interlopers had been encouraged to exit, his only real concern was now miles away, down the mountain and in the city. He hoped they got the message. Stay away if you know what’s good for you.

  He rolled over on the cot, its taut canvas crunching underneath his shoulders, which had muscled up from hoeing the garden and chopping wood for the fire. Even his bones, joints, and fingernails had grown stronger. His back had fewer kinks, and his knees were sturdier from long hikes in the woods, foraging for squirrel, wild turkey, and rabbits, and fishing in the cold mountain streams.

  He peeked outside, checking his porch for overnighters. When hikers arrived after dark, they often made themselves at home. In the morning, he’d find them rolled up in a bundle like the morning newspaper, huddled against the wall for warmth and protection from the damp. But the weather had been gradually improving, and fewer of them sought shelter from the spring pop-up storms.

  Stuffing paper under the logs in the wood-burning stove, Walter was waiting for the hot water to boil when the ground beneath the peeling linoleum rumbled. As anyone living in California does automatically, he checked for swaying objects. Not an earthquake. A vehicle approached.

  One hand on the shotgun, he peeked between the curtain and window. A black SUV had pulled into the clearing and the two front doors burst open at the same time. A heartbeat or two passed before anyone got out. Without stirring the fabric, he slid the barrel of the shotgun into a slim hole in the pane he’d tapped out just for the purpose.

  Breathing steadily in and out, Walter eyeballed the yard. The teapot began to whimper behind him. In a few moments the steam would build up and whistle his presence. He stepped back and slid the pot off the burner, then stepped back to face his visitors. The two men had covered the ground to the door by then.

  Knocking vibrated the cabin, causing the windows to sputter in their casing. “Open up. We know you’re in there!”

  More banging set Walter’s heart to ricocheting in his chest. “Who are you, and what do you want?” He backed away and crab-stepped behind the three-legged sofa, keeping the barrel trained at the door. He knew the lock wouldn’t hold more than a light blow, and the rotting wood wouldn’t slow slugs if they started shooting.

  “Get back in your vehicle now!” He punctuated the order with a swift movement to the bolt action, hoping they heard the warning. “I mean it!”

  There were scuffling noises outside, and he swung the nose toward the porch, sighting through the window into the yard trying to judge where they were headed. There were at least two men, maybe three. Backed up to the wall, he froze, listening for any movement, in front or behind the house. A creepy calm fell like a mantle. Even the birdsong had quieted.

  “Put down the gun!” The front door burst open, and a pistol pointed at Walter. In the same moment, cold steel dug into his left temple.

  “Down! Now!” The barrel jabbed him, and Walter removed his finger from the trigger, slid the butt off his shoulder and held it up in the air, his other hand high. The shotgun was snatched from his grasp.

  “Sit!” He started for the couch, but he was jerked back onto a kitchen chair, his hands were forced behind him, his wrists caught together. Plastic zip ties dug into his skin, and he had no choice but to allow his ankles to be attached to the chair legs.

  “Now. Maybe you will be a better host.” The guy who had been supervising from the front door holstered his 9 mm and strode over. Walter tried to get a better look at him, but the one behind him clocked him with the butt of his gun.

  “Ow! What do you want from me? I don’t have nothing you need.”

  “You thought you could get away, didn’t you?” The guy wearing cheap shoes, his shiny suit too small, was the spokesperson.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Another blow.

  “Ow!” A trickle of blood worked its way down Walter’s cheek. “Look around. I don’t have any money, no drugs neither.”

  Cheap suit mumbled something, and Walter was left in the fine company of the sidekick, who took an opportunity to do just that while his boss ransacked first the living room, which didn’t take long since it consisted of the shabby couch and an equally worn easy chair. He went into the room where Walter slept, and he could hear the cot being overturned. He came back, holding the box Walter kept under the bed.

  He dropped it onto the coffee table and jimmied the lid off to flip through the few papers, tossing aside the expired passport, and everything else inside. He picked up the polaroid. “Hey, who’s the girl? This your family?” He turned it over. “Pretty old. Kid must be what, about thirty now?” He showed the picture to his partner. “Got us some leverage now.”

  Pistol out again, he tucked the barrel under Walter’s chin, forcing him to look up. “Where is it?” He jammed upward until a nerve in Walter’s neck stung like a bee.

  “Where is what?”

  “Don’t play dumb. Where’s the chip?”

  “I-I gave it to the authorities. It’s being taken care of.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? We’re the authorities now.” He waved the picture. “We don’t get the chip, your family will be ours.”

  “You wouldn’t know where to find them. Or even if they’re still alive.”

  “Oh, we have ways of finding them. We have friends in high places, don’t we?” His foul breath hung between them. The pistol barrel forced him to face forward.

  “Please. I just came up here to get away. I want to die in peace.”

  “Oh, you’re gonna die, but I’m not sure how peaceful it’s going to be unless we get what we’re after.”

&
nbsp; “Maybe he can download what was on it,” the minion behind Walter suggested. “You know, from that cloud thingy.”

  “Yeah. You must have put it in the sky or cloud or whatever it’s called for backup.”

  From their stumbling use of the terms, Walter knew these were hired guns, and they needed him alive, so he hatched a plan that might buy him time. “We’re not exactly in the middle of a metropolis.”

  The guy tasked with standing over him had a bad habit of biting his nails. “Huh?” He spit out a bite of cuticle.

  “Does it look like I have Wi-Fi?” He’d set up a satellite connection, but these fools wouldn’t understand how that worked. “If you want to give me a ride into town, I could possibly find a hotsp—”

  “Could we do that?”

  Bossman beckoned the Spitter over to the window, and there followed harsh whispering. “We don’t…town…permission…” was all he heard. Then things began to go south.

  “Maybe we should teach him a lesson, boss.” Nail-biter muttered, then spat. “I’ll get the spare can of gas. This place should go up in no time.”

  “My partner here has a point. I guess we have no other choice but to let him play with his matches. He does love a good bonfire.”

  “Wait!” Walter growled. “If you kill me, you’ll never get what you want.”

  “Keep talking.” His unibrow worked up into an inverted V.

  “If you don’t feel comfortable taking me into town, come back in two days. I can get what you want by then.”

  “Nah, let’s kill him now, boss. He’s bluffing.”

  “Shoot him in the foot, and he won’t be able to run.”

  “He’ll bleed to death.”

  The boss rolled his head, and a vertebra popped. “How exactly are you going to get us what we want?”

  “I can go into town, use the Wi-Fi at the market. I will download what you need.” Walter watched their reactions. “Please, just give me the time. You’ve made your point.” He focused on the photograph. “I understand you could hurt my family if I don’t deliver.”