by Milk;Honey
Rina nodded, backed away a foot, and kept her finger on the trigger. Abel stood.
“I’ve got a picture of him and me taken before we were shipped to the Southeast,” Abel said. “It’s in my wallet…in the back of my pants. Wanna see it?”
Rina didn’t answer him. Abel slowly reached inside his pocket and pulled out his wallet.
“See, ma’am? Just a plain old wallet,” Abel said. “Cheap. Not even real leather.”
He fished out a color picture and tossed it to her. Rina bent down and retrieved the photograph, her eyes still upon Abel. Slowly, she stood and allowed herself to look at the snapshot.
It was definitely Peter—and the man who claimed his name to be Abel Atwater. Both were younger—kids, in fact. They were wearing camouflage hats, white T-shirts, and camouflage pants, and had machine guns strapped across their shoulders—Decker’s left, Abel’s right. They had their free arms looped around each other, and were smiling broadly. Abel had once been well built, broad shoulders and good height—judging from where he came up to Peter, around 6'. Looking at him now, he didn’t seem much over 5'8".
But it was Peter who captured her attention—his grin so childlike, his face and skin so smooth…clean-shaven. She’d never seen him without a mustache, and was surprised at the Cupid’s bow shape of his upper lip. But it was his eyes that kept her spellbound. They were the same color, the same shape…but they were different. It was the expression, the gleam of anticipation—eager eyes. Something she’d never witnessed in him even when he was at his happiest—when they made love, when he was with his daughter, when he played ball with her sons. Nothing, nothing, had ever lit up his eyes the way they shone in this shutter-snap of history. Sadly, she knew in her heart that nothing ever would.
“I have more,” Abel whispered from behind her shoulder.
Rina jumped. The clopping of his prosthesis notwithstanding, she hadn’t heard him move. He was a few inches from her, reeking of sweat. Immediately, she backed away.
Abel said, “I’m sorry if I scared you—”
“That’s okay.”
Abel’s eyes went to the gun. “You know how to use that thing?”
“Very well,” Rina said.
“’Cause it’s dangerous if you don’t.”
“I do.”
“Look…” Abel gave her a strained smile. “Why don’t you just go in the house, and I’ll get out of here. We’d both feel more comfortable that way. I’m really sorry about this intrusion. Tell Pete I’m sorry.” He threw his hands in the air. “I’m always messing something up.”
Rina didn’t speak right away. Finally, she said, “You said you had more pictures.”
“Yes,” Abel said. “Yes, ma’am, I do. I carry my past in my pockets, what can I tell you?” He peered inside his wallet and pulled out some snapshots. “These were taken in Da Nang, whenever we had a few spare moments. Oftener than you’d think. Hours of mind-numbing boredom mixed with a few minutes of terror. Never could relax. When you did, you’d get caught with your pants down. Kind of like police work, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
Abel offered her the pictures. Rina took them. The tips of their fingers touched. Abel closed his eyes and swallowed dryly.
Rina said, “You can finish fixing up the board if you want.”
Abel smiled. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do just that.” He walked back over to his tools, bent down, picked up a hammer, and put a couple of nails in his mouth.
Rina took a deep breath. Where do you draw the line between being cautious and being paranoid? The guy seemed straightforward, he and Peter were in that picture together. Yet he could be a psychopath, she had no way of judging him. Maybe the only thing that kept him from attacking her was the gun in her hand. Still, the trusting soul in her felt as if she should offer him something to drink. It was sweltering. But what if…
Rina turned her attention to the black-and-white photographs. The first one was a group picture—six boys—Peter smiling for the camera, his face grimed with mud. His eyes had changed, soured—the eyes she knew now. He was holding a machine gun in one hand, a bayonet in the other. Another picture showed him and Abel resting inside what looked to be a tent. They lay on separate cots, bare-chested, reading paperbacks. Did Peter’s cover say The Carpetbaggers? Abel was reading Michener’s Hawaii. Some sort of radio transmitter sat atop a pile of Coke cartons. The last picture showed Peter, Abel, and another boy boarding a helicopter. Still young, still smiling, but all of them with stale eyes.
Rina walked over to Abel and handed him back the photos. She held the earlier color photo and asked, “Do you have a copy of this one?”
Abel took the nails out of his mouth. “I don’t. But you can keep it, if you want.”
“I’ll make a copy and send the original back to you,” Rina said. “Is that all right?”
“You don’t have to go to all that trouble, ma’am.”
“It’s no trouble.” Rina paused, then said, “Can I bring you something to drink?”
“No thank you,” Abel said. “All I want to do is fix this board and get out of here. I’m under specific instructions to be scarce while you’re around.”
“Peter’s protective of me.”
“He should be. Lots of nuts around town.”
Rina asked, “What are you doing for him?”
“Rebuilding his barn, his stables.” Abel placed a nail on the board and whacked it flush in one stroke. “They’re in terrible shape.”
“Well, nice meeting you,” Rina said.
“Likewise.”
As soon as she was gone, Abel placed the hammer down and felt hot tears well up inside his eyes. Though he knew it was a waste of time, he wondered what it might be like to be loved by someone like that—caressed by such perfect fingers, kissed by luscious lips. Her curves were edible, her face divine. But it was the hair—black and thick, as shiny as an oil slick. Man, he wanted her.
And she belonged to Doc. Pete had the badge and two whole legs as well. A part of Abel hated Decker with a consuming intensity. But another part loved him too much to let him go. And now it was Doc to the rescue, his only chance for getting out of the mess he was in. He wiped his eyes and slammed another nail into the floor.
Seeing Doc was painful, too painful. The prime reason why he’d never answered his letters after they’d moved to separate cities, why he’d never called him after he’d settled in L.A. Had he remained whole, Doc and he would have probably gone through Police Academy together. He was from Kentucky, Doc was from Florida. A century ago, they both had decided that the City of Angels held all the promises. Like the cowboys of old, they had made plans to head west. Abel would marry his Song, his Asian doll, Decker would be the best man. Together they’d off all the bad guys and make the streets safe again. But the dream disintegrated—his girl murdered, his leg gone.
And now this one shows up—with the same thick black hair. Doing things to his mind.
Gotta stop thinkin’ about it.
Gotta stop.
Gotta stop.
He took a deep breath and tried to free his mind of pollution.
This time he was lucky, succeeded in letting go. He buried his mind in the minutiae of his work and didn’t stop until he heard footsteps approaching the barn. He felt his face go hot.
“I brought you out some orange juice,” Rina said. Ginger was at her side. She was carrying a tray on which she’d placed a carton of orange juice and a glass full of ice cubes. She stopped at the entrance to the barn and lowered the tray onto the ground. The gun was no longer in her hand.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Abel said quietly.
“Are you almost done?” Rina said.
“Another five minutes maybe.”
“Okay.”
“I can leave now, if you want,” Abel said. “I don’t want to upset you.”
“No,” Rina said, backing away slowly. “It’s okay.”
“Well, I’ll say good-bye then,” Abel
said. “It was nice to meet you. Pete told me that you and him have big plans. I wish you two lots of good fortune. He’s a lucky man.”
“Thank you.”
“And thanks for the juice.”
“Thanks for the picture,” Rina said. “It means a lot to me. I’ll get it back to you right away.”
“Take your time,” Abel said. He watched her walk away, the dog nuzzling against her hip. How he envied the four-legged bitch. He sighed and stroked his beard. “Take your time,” Abel repeated, whispering it this time.
13
Slouched in the backseat of the unmarked, Decker smoked a cigarette. He’d removed his jacket and tie, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His feet were propped over the driver’s seat, all the windows of the Plymouth cranked open, the doors pushed out to the maximum. Hot tobacco air mixed with dry dust, and his mouth felt desert-arid. He eyeballed Marge outside, saw the sweat pouring off her forehead, and wondered if he should give her a break, whether she’d take offense at his offer. He shrugged and decided she’d ask for help if she needed it. She was talking to Byron Howard, calming him down, trying to get him inside the car so he wouldn’t mess the ground if a grid search was needed. But the bald man wasn’t heeding her advice, and paced as if he had something to hide.
Ten minutes later, Decker heard tires grinding against gravel. From the back windshield, he saw a black-and-white County Sheriff’s car and a white crime-lab van park behind the Plymouth. The driver of the cruiser opened the door, stood, and stretched. He appeared to be in his sixties—a portly man with a pencil-thin mustache, pouches for cheeks, and a pale complexion. His hair was white and thin, combed to the side to cover an empty patch of pink scalp. He was dressed in typical detective fashion—a white short-sleeved shirt, clip-on tie, navy slacks and black oxfords. He sauntered over to the van, knocked on the window, and waved the men from Forensic outside.
The techs were young—a crew-cut Asian and curly-haired redhead splattered with acne and freckles, both wearing long white coats and sweating in the heat. Slowly, Decker swung his feet outside, stood up, and joined the powwow.
Shaking Decker’s hand, the sheriff detective introduced himself as Ozzie Crandal. He said, “I was in the field when the RTO patched the call through. Actually, I was on my lunch break. It sounds like we’ve got a mess inside there.”
Decker introduced himself and said “mess” was an understatement, explaining what they had was a quadruple homicide.
Crandal bit his lip. “How’d LAPD field the call?”
“Case originated in my division just over the mountain. I was doing follow-up when my partner and I stumbled onto this one.”
“Who’s your partner?”
“Detective Dunn, the woman talking to the bald man.”
Crandal touched the crown of his head and said, “Witness?”
“No, so far as I know. He’s a neighbor—name’s Byron Howard.” Decker turned to the techs. “Detective Dunn will take you men in. It’s ripe in there. Take along lots of VapoRub.”
The Asian smiled, exposing large, square teeth. His name tag said Tommy Chin. “I like challenge.” He spoke in a staccato voice. “Food for brain.”
The redhead rolled his eyes, and pulled his partner by his coat sleeve over to Marge. Decker watched the three of them go inside the house, then asked Crandal if he wanted to take a look at the murder victims.
Crandal ignored the question and said, “So you and your partner are not technically with Homicide?”
“Nope,” Decker said. “Juvey and Sex Crimes.”
“But you found the kid in Foothill territory.”
“Yes,” Decker answered. “In the newest Manfred development just over the hill.”
“Who’s Manfred?” Crandal asked.
“Developer,” Decker said. “Been building a lot in our division.”
Crandal marked a line in the ground with the tip of his shoe. He said, “We can do a joint investigation, if you want—split the paperwork.”
Bullshit, Decker thought. A joint investigation usually meant double paperwork on everything and people stepping all over each other’s toes. But he paused only a moment before nodding yes. He couldn’t get Katie’s face out of his head, her tinkly laughter, her scrunched-nose smile. And Byron Howard sobbing Linda, Linda, Linda…
Dammit, one of those women was the little girl’s mother.
Tommy, the Asian, came running out of the house, his mouth and nose hidden behind a kerchief. Wiping sweat off his brow, he came back to Decker and Crandal.
“We got a real problem in there.”
“What?” Decker asked.
Tommy said, “Better if you see for yourself. Arnie’s in there now. He try to figure out what to do. It’s real bad. Especially bad if you are allergic.” He let go with machine-gun laughter.
Decker removed his shoes, explaining to Crandal that there were two different shoe prints and the less mixup Forensics had, the better. He led Crandal into the house, offering him the VapoRub as they reached the front door. Then they stepped inside.
Time had done nothing to dampen the shock of the sight. Decker felt his stomach buck anew at the pile of bloated meat in the center, the legless man on the refrigerator. Pools of blood, layers of milk and honey. The bugs—especially the maggots—seemed to have multiplied in just a half hour. The heat sped everything up. Marge was sketching the layout of the kitchen in her notepad, trying to draw, hold the tablet, and cover her nose at the same time. Arnie, the other lab man, was scraping some dried blood off a cabinet, transferring it to a glassine slide.
He said, “I can’t keep this up much longer. Bee stings weren’t part of the job description.”
Tommy said, “I’ve seen bodies covered by beetles, ants, even worms. They like to lay eggs in the cavities—nose, eyes, ears. Never seen bees like this. I take a few for specimens, a few live ones, too. But the rest, they just background. They get mad when we try to do our job.”
“And they’re eating up the evidence,” Arnie added.
“Give us a minute to decide how we want to handle this,” Decker said. “In the meantime, can you take some blood samples from the bodies? I need to see if they match the blood found on a little girl’s pajamas.”
“Sure, I get you blood,” Tommy answered. “How much you need? A tube? A pint? A gallon? They don’t need any of it now.” Again, the laughter.
“Whatever Forensics needs to run the tests, Tommy,” Decker said.
“No problem.” Tommy went back to work.
Arnie slapped his arm. “I can’t work this way.”
Decker said a minute, and waved Marge and Crandal outside. He then explained to Crandal that Byron Howard was a resident bee expert.
“Bet he can help us get rid of the critters,” Decker said.
“Before he does that,” Marge said, “he should look at the bodies and see how many he can ID. Who knows what those corpses will look like once we get all the insects off? With all the heat and bloat, we may be seeing the bodies at their peak.”
“A gruesome thought,” Crandal said.
Decker said, “Way Byron was moaning inside, one of the women should be Linda Darcy. The others?” He shrugged.
“Let’s go ask Byron,” Marge said.
Crandal wiped his forehead and said he was going to take a look around outside. When Marge asked him if he wanted his notepad, Crandal gave her a sour look and announced he was going to the car to get it. But Marge noticed he had been walking in the opposite direction.
As Decker and Marge approached Byron, Decker realized how slowly they were walking, how listless their movements had become. The sun was directly overhead, the sky cloudless and deep blue. The unrelenting heat, the rancid smells, everyone was being sapped of energy. Decker asked Byron how he felt. The bald man was ashen.
Byron said, “Kin I go home now?”
Decker said, “There’s no legal reason why you can’t. But we have a couple of favors to ask you.”
&
nbsp; “What?” Byron asked.
“First, someone should ID the bodies for us now—before any more decay sets in….”
Byron didn’t answer. Decker placed his hand on the beekeeper’s thick shoulder, but Byron shrugged him off.
Marge said, “Mr. Howard, I know this is horrible stuff, but we need you to do this for us—”
“A couple of favors,” Byron interrupted. He faced Decker. “You said a couple of favors. What’s the other one?”
Decker fanned himself with the back of his hand and said, “None of us are used to working around bees. We have to get the bees off the bodies—”
“And wasps,” Byron corrected. “Some are bees, but there’re wasps too…they eat…bite…meat…I gotta sit down.”
“Sure.” Decker steered him to the unmarked, placed him down in the backseat. Decker and Marge sat on either side of the beekeeper, not too close but close enough to let Byron know what was expected of him.
Decker said, “Not feeling so hot?”
Byron shook his head. “I gotta get back to my own farm. Darlene’s gonna get fiery for me being out this long.”
“Not once she hears the reason,” Marge said.
“No, sir, Miss Detective. You don’t know Darlene.”
“Mr. Howard—” Decker said.
“You might as well call me Byron. This ain’t no time to get formal.”
“Byron, we need help,” Decker said. “How do we get rid of those bees…wasps?”
“Smoke ’em, I reckon. Smoke confuses bees, makes them easy to handle. A few may still have a ornery disposition, but most you’ll be able to brush aside, into a box or some supers. The wasps…smoke sometimes doesn’t work. But it don’t hurt to try.”
“You have special suits for handling bees?” Marge asked. “Something our lab men can maybe borrow?”
“I’ve got some veils and gloves back at my farm. Take what you need. Then do me a favor and get out of my life.” He shook his head again, this time with a “Dear God” escaping from his lips.
