Your Son Is Alive

by James Scott Bell

  “You know his work?”

  “I took a class in college. I remember thinking a three-year-old could spill paint and produce the same thing.”

  Erin smiled.

  “I liked your honesty,” he said. “And I thought you’re someone I’d like to get to know.”

  She could not deny it. She was flattered. Absolutely. And, for one small and embarrassing moment, attracted to him. It was both exciting and disconcerting. She had not felt any kind of charge of the raw attraction kind since being drawn to Dylan. The term one-man woman certainly applied to her. Even after the divorce.

  But now, suddenly, here was an electrical charge.

  “Wow,” Erin said, “I’m floored.”

  “You can reject me now,” he said.

  “Okay, if it will make you feel better, I—”

  “It won’t! I don’t want you to reject me. I want you to say yes.”

  “Mr. Bolt, you—”

  “At least call me Andy.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” Erin said.

  “One dinner. To see.”

  “See what?”

  “If there’s something to be pursued.”

  “Mr. … Andy, I don’t know if you picked this up, but I’m a bit older than you are.”

  “That doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “I’m attracted to you and I want to get to know you better.”

  “But it could never …” She stopped, hearing Dylan’s voice. Fifty is the new thirty.

  “We won’t know unless we give it a shot,” Anderson Bolt said. “Maybe we’ll end up like those Olympic donuts, linked together.”

  Smooth, she had to give him that.

  But was that all she wanted to give?

  8

  All Dylan knew about Gadge Garner was that he was an ex-Marine who did high stakes security work for celebrities like Jaquez Rollins. And that his nickname was short for Gadget.

  Dylan met him at the office at noon on Thursday, at Jaquez’s insistence. Garner actually came in two minutes after twelve and said, “Sorry I’m late. I was getting my car towed.”

  “Getting?” Dylan said.

  “It’s cheaper than parking around here,” Garner said.

  Dylan smiled. “You should do standup.”

  Garner said, “I used to, actually. When I was in my twenties. But then I heard something that made me stop.”

  “What was that?”

  “Crickets.”

  Gadge Garner was in his mid-forties, stood around five-ten, all of it solid. His hair, buzzed short, was the color of steel. He sat in one of the chairs in front of Dylan’s desk, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He looked ready to spring at any provocation.

  “Jaquez says you got a guy playing a mind game.”

  “It seems that way.”

  “Slipping things under your door at home?”

  “That’s right. Notes. About my son being alive. How much do you know?”

  “That much. And that you have no idea who would do that.”

  Dylan nodded.

  “So let’s talk about catching this guy and scooping out his entrails.”

  Dylan froze.

  Garner smiled. “The second part is optional. Now, first thing we do, we optic-mize your place. Hidden cameras so you’ll be able to look at your phone anyplace you are and see what’s going on, plus tap into the digital stream on your computer, which’ll record as long as you want. We can also code it to flag certain parameters so you don’t have to scan eighty hours at a time.”

  “That’s a lot of coverage.”

  “What it takes these days. Even then, this guy may not be back. He may try other ways, other places.”

  “That’s troubling.”

  “Life is troubling,” Garner said, “if you only look at it from the wrong side. Me, I try to find the things that make me laugh. That way I can laugh when I fight.”

  “Fight?”

  “You got to fight. No choice. You can fight this guy.”

  “How?”

  “Information.”

  “I haven’t got much of that.”

  “So get some.”

  Dylan looked at Garner’s implacable face and said nothing.

  Garner smiled. “Dylan … may I call you Dylan?”

  “I fear for my health if I say no.”

  Garner threw his head back and laughed. “That’s the ticket!” he said.

  It felt good to hear the man laugh. Maybe there was something to his philosophy after all.

  Garner said, “This note said your son is alive. Two possibilities, right? True or false. If true, he is somewhere, and he’s about, what, twenty?”

  “Yes,” Dylan said, even as his head tightened at the actual prospect. He couldn’t help his mind forming pictures of what Kyle might look like at this very moment, if he was breathing. It was an idealized picture, a good-looking young man, smiling. People around him. A college scene.

  “Did your kid ever get fingerprinted for school?” Garner asked.

  Dylan shook his head. “Some kids did in Kindergarten. We opted out.”

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “It just seemed intrusive to us at the time. I guess it was a mistake.”

  “It’s never a mistake to put on the chain lock when the government comes knocking,” Garner said. “How about DNA?”

  “Kyle’s?”

  “Any items from his childhood you maybe have in a box or something?”

  “My wife might have some things.”

  “Worth a try, matching with a database.”

  “But isn’t that only if Kyle went to prison or something?”

  “Also the military, a hospital stay, some school systems.”

  “Can a private citizen tap into those?” Dylan asked.

  “There are ways,” Garner said.

  “Do you want to fill me in on those?”

  “Do you want to know if your son is really alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no,” Garner said. “I’ll leave the vertebral subluxation complexes to you, you leave the security to me.”

  9

  Despite the notes, Dylan was determined to have dinner with Tabitha Mullaney. He wanted that part of his life to stay on the upward trajectory it seemed to be heading. The only question was when he would tell her about the notes.

  He met her at Clearman’s, a classic L.A. steakhouse. He’d fallen in love with the place when he moved to Whittier from the San Fernando Valley ten years ago. He liked the low lighting, the tableside service, and the kitschy decor.

  But pulling into the parking lot, he didn’t know what to do when he saw her again. Should he be the one to kiss? On the cheek? The cheek was still safe. Lips would be after this date, right? Would she expect that? What if she turned her head or backed away? Would that mean she didn’t want to yet, or ever? How does anybody deal with this anymore?

  She was waiting for him by the hostess stand. Smiling, she stood and said, “Hello!” and moved toward him.

  Dylan made a snap decision to go in for a fast hug, bypassing her cheek, taking his out of range, a nice neutral gesture. But when they hugged he felt a tenseness in her. Was she as nervous as he was? Or was it his palpable edginess passing through him to her?

  “Your table is ready,” the hostess said.

  A waitress greeted them at their table and asked if they’d like a cocktail. Dylan wanted a double bourbon, but decided that wouldn’t be such a hot idea under the circumstances.

  “Shall we have some wine?” he asked Tabitha.

  “That would be nice,” she said.

  “Let’s have the wine list, please,” Dylan said, and felt a small measure of relief. He was with a woman again, a woman he liked, and was going through normal dating motions in a nice restaurant.

  Maybe life could recalibrate itself.

  Maybe Tabitha Mullaney would be the one to do it. At forty-nine, she was two years younger than Dylan. Like him, divorced. They’d spoken of it o
nly briefly at their first meeting, in a let’s-get-it-out-of-the-way manner that pleased them both.

  She had shoulder-length auburn hair, blue eyes, and tonight wore a black dress that was perfect for the venue. Not tight and strapless as if going to an Oscar party, but with cap sleeves and high neckline that showed off a modest necklace of silver and turquoise beads.

  “I love this place,” Tabitha said, looking around. “I never knew about it.”

  “Been here since 1947,” Dylan said.

  “And I want you to know, we’re splitting the bill.”

  He’d anticipated that. “Thank you,” he said. “But not tonight.”

  “Please.”

  “Let’s discuss after we’ve had our dinner,” he said, smiling.

  Tabitha smiled back.

  The waitress returned with the wine list. Dylan took it, wondering what the new protocol was. Having a woman offer to pay was new enough. He didn’t want to blow it by being too assertive over the wine.

  “What sort of wine do you like?” he said.

  “Hm, I suppose that depends on what I’m eating.”

  “Ah, good,” Dylan said. “James Bond won’t take us for Russian spies.”

  Tabitha laughed. “What?”

  “Did you ever see From Russia with Love, the James Bond movie?”

  Tabitha shook her head.

  “I like Daniel Craig,” Dylan said, “But Sean Connery was the best Bond, most fans will tell you.”

  “Fascinating,” she said, as if she really meant it, which was another couple of points in her favor.

  “So Bond identifies a Russian assassin because he orders red wine with fish.”

  “Ah ha.”

  “We must order carefully,” Dylan said. “This place is dripping with secret agents, and we don’t want them to spot us.”

  Tabitha laughed again, an easy laugh.

  They decided they both wanted meat, so Dylan suggested a Duckhorn cabernet. Tabitha said it sounded good.

  And it was. Dylan did the tasting and approving, and the waitress poured and took their dinner order. Filet for Tabitha. Dylan ordered the bone-in ribeye, medium rare.

  Dylan raised his glass.

  “To the newness of things,” he said.

  Tabitha said, “Indeed” and they clinked.

  And spoke of childhoods. Tabitha was from El Paso, or as she called it, “Hell’s stove.” Her name came by way of Bewitched, the old TV show that her mother loved. It gave her some amount of teasing in school, but she learned how to stand up for herself that way.

  After high school she went north, to the University of Michigan.

  Dylan told her about growing up in Stockton, going to U.C. Davis, and then to chiropractic school in Los Angeles. He stayed in the city because he wanted to work with sports teams. And what was Tabitha’s dream job?

  “I’d like to be in charge of a fleet of fishing boats,” she said.

  “That’s your dream job?”

  She nodded. “You asked. My father used to take me fishing. I’ve always loved it. But the fishing profession is not one that many women go into. So I went to paralegal school instead.”

  “That sounds a little more practical.”

  “Oh it is,” she said. “But then that means putting aside the things you really want to do. The adventures you might go on.”

  Over salads they spoke of adventures. Dylan had always wanted to go to the Alps and walk around. Tabitha wanted to see the Great Wall of China. When she said that, Dylan could see the two of them walking it together, holding hands.

  Slow down, boy.

  The meat was presented tableside, with a bit of flambé for show.

  And by the time the waitress left the dessert menu, Dylan wondered if he might be falling in love. The thought filled him with a certain kind of fear—a delicious, wonderful fear, the kind that tells you your heart is still beating and thrumming with hope.

  Only once did Tabitha ask if anything was bothering him. He had to make the decision. Tell her about the notes then and there? Or hold back so as not to ruin the best night he’d had in months?

  He said, “The only thing that’s bothering me at the moment is figuring out how to make this meal last as long as possible.”

  She reached out and took his hand. No words. They weren’t needed.

  They decided they were too full even to share a dessert. Tabitha ordered a cappuccino. Dylan a regular coffee.

  It was after the first warm sip that Tabitha said, “This has been so nice.”

  “It has,” Dylan said.

  “May I tell you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “No Russian spies around?”

  Dylan leaned in. “Better keep it low, just in case.”

  “Okay,” Tabitha said, leaning forward herself. “If you want to see your son again, do exactly as I say.”

  10

  Erin said, “Did you feel that?”

  Monica said, “What?”

  “A bump.”

  “Bump?”

  “I felt it here.” Erin touched her chest.

  “Have some more wine,” Monica said. She held up the bottle of chardonnay. They were on Erin’s balcony looking out at the lights of North Hollywood. Her complex on Vineland was part of the NoHo hipster renewal. She’d decided to move here after the divorce to recapture a slice of her artistic youth. Paint again, maybe.

  Which is why she liked Monica so much. She was in her late twenties and was a freelance illustrator for the movie studios, and dressed and spoke with a wild abandon that seemed to always cheer Erin up. Which she needed tonight.

  “Bring it on,” Erin said, holding out her glass.

  “Shall we get drunk?” Monica said.

  “Just buzzed,” Erin said.

  “Like Pearl.”

  “Who?”

  “Pearl,” Monica said. “From that Will Ferrell vid about the landlord?”

  “I guess I’m out of it,” Erin said.

  “I’ll show it to you later. You’ll crack up.”

  “I’d like to crack up,” Erin said.

  Monica said, “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, just little things,” Erin said, feeling like the lousiest liar in the world.

  “You know I was supposed to go out with Sean tonight.”

  “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry—”

  “A poker game came up,” Monica said. “He said he had to go, his old college roommate. And did I understand?”

  “Did you?” Erin said.

  “Oh, I understood all right. And I’ll have my revenge.”

  Erin laughed again.

  “All to say,” Monica said, “that I’ve got nothing but time, so tell me what’s going on, will you?”

  Erin took a sip of wine and looked at the lights, silent in the distance.

  “I saw Dylan the other day,” Erin said. “He had some disturbing news.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I don’t think so,” Erin said. “Neither am I.”

  Monica held her wine glass with both hands.

  “There’s something you don’t know about me,” Erin said. “I never talked about it. I had a son.”

  “Had?”

  “He was kidnapped.”

  “Oh,” said Monica, the word drawn out and full of sympathy.

  “Fifteen years ago,” Erin said.

  “God, I can’t imagine.”

  “It’s the not knowing that gets you,” Erin said. “You have to learn to live with it. The first couple of years, your insides burn up and you’re hoping that he’ll be found. And then you turn to hoping he’s alive. That he’ll be found. Then you start to wonder if he’s dead. Then you have thoughts that he’s being hurt, abused, and you start hoping he’s dead, and then you feel guilty for hoping that and …”

  Erin’s throat closed up. Then she felt Monica’s arms enfold her, and she let herself lean on Monica’s shoulder.

  11

  It felt as if his skull had
been reduced to sand and spilled down his neck into the pit of his stomach.

  Tabitha sat there as if nothing had changed. Her smile was easy, though no longer warm.

  “I know it’s a shock,” Tabitha said. “But it doesn’t have to ruin our evening.”

  Same voice. Same lilt. Same eyes. No, the color of the eyes wasn’t quite the same. The shadows behind them were new, having just been revealed.

  Dylan had no idea what to say or do. He imagined himself reaching over and grabbing her by the throat and choking her until she told him what was going on.

  But of course he couldn’t do it, not here.

  Clever girl.

  Evil girl.

  “Is he …”

  “Alive? Yes, he is. He’s twenty now.”

  “Dear God.”

  “Don’t bring God into it,” Tabitha said. “That will just complicate matters.”

  Bile rose in his throat. Incipient love had turned to hate in a matter of seconds. He thought he was going to retch. He breathed, slowly, in and out.

  As Tabitha batted her eyes at him.

  “Is everything all right?” It was the waitress. She was looking at Dylan. He tried to regain composure.

  And failed. He couldn’t even move his head to look at the waitress.

  “He’s all right,” Tabitha said. “Just had some news. Maybe a little air will do him good. Will you bring me the check, please?”

  12

  “You’re going to need money,” Petrie said.

  “You gonna give me some?” Jimmy said.

  “Sure.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten.”

  “Grand?”

  “What, you think I’m cheap? You think I don’t pay for a good job?”

  “What job?” Jimmy said.

  “You know what job,” Petrie said. He and Jimmy were sitting at the far outside table at the barbecue place near the freeway. Jimmy was still working on a rack of baby-back ribs, his mouth rimmed with brown-red sauce.

  “I wanna hear you say it,” Jimmy said.

  “Not here,” Petrie said.

  “Nobody can hear us,” Jimmy said.

  “You never know these days,” Petrie said. “You been in the joint too long. You don’t even have a phone.”