Your Son Is Alive

by James Scott Bell

  Tonight it was more from Diana Gabaldon.

  Erin had just made it through four pages when a thought flashed in her mind and started making noise.

  The thought was that Dylan was in some sort of trouble.

  39

  “Police?” Dylan said.

  Carbona nodded.

  “Here?”

  He nodded again.

  “What is this?”

  Carbona did not respond.

  “I’m going outside,” Dylan said, standing.

  Carbona stood up, too, pointing the gun at him.

  “Where’s Tabitha?” Dylan said, just as Carbona’s arm made an arc like a boxer’s right cross.

  Hard steel slammed into Dylan’s skull. Fireworks exploded behind his eyes. He was aware of falling, hitting hard floor, his body responding on its own now, seeking to shut itself down to stop the pain, but not able to go all the way.

  Not able to move. Not able to speak.

  Groaning.

  And sounds following like an audible kaleidoscope. Sirens closer. The screech of tires.

  Dylan’s own head ringing.

  Then a retching sound, and Dylan realizing it was from his own throat.

  A door slamming open and voices and radio static and feet.

  And hands, grabbing him, yanking him to his feet.

  More voices.

  His arms yanked behind him. The feeling of handcuffs on his wrists.

  He was surrounded by cops, touched by strong hands, hearing voices, but they were growing distant, and he went into another world, long ago, seeing the Mickey Mouse balloon from Disneyland when he was four, and his dad tied the string around his wrist. But he wanted to hold it himself so he slipped the string off his wrist and held the balloon and waved it around. Then had to scratch his back and somehow the string got away, and the balloon went up, up, up and he said Oh no oh no oh no, and he could only watch, helpless, his grief expanding because Mickey was all alone in the sky, no one to help him. Unmoored.

  Dylan was barely aware that he was moving, or that he was being placed in the back of a police patrol SUV.

  A million little devils poked his brain with their pitchforks. He wanted to crawl out of his head and leave it on the seat. But he was cuffed.

  Arrested?

  And now a medic of some sort was talking to him, reaching into a little black bag, touching his face with something wet and stingy.

  “Hold still,” the medic said.

  Dylan almost said something but thought passing out might be a better plan. Just sleep. Wake up and this will all be over. I’ll be back in my office with Jaquez Rollins, laughing, and this week will not have happened.

  He closed his eyes.

  The medic left him.

  Dylan heard more voices and the tinny sound of official police chatter over the radio.

  40

  Dylan didn’t answer his phone.

  Erin left a voice message, a light one, a “just checking in, no big deal” kind of thing. But she found she wanted to talk to him. Desperately.

  Or maybe this was all just what your mind did under stress. What was it her high school English teacher, Mrs. Tomosina, had said? About Keats? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter. That was the quote. Mrs. Tomosina gave a lovely interpretation of the words. But after class Erin had asked if the opposite was also true—that unheard and unsweet melodies are worse?

  “You’re quite a thinker,” Mrs. Tomosina had said, then assigned Erin to write a paper on the subject.

  For which she got an A. The thesis was that we tend to make things worse than they are, because our imaginations are boundless and turn pictures of bad into pictures of worse.

  The answer, she wrote in the paper, was to give your imagination another direction, like a good book. Mrs. Tomosina had circled that paragraph and written next to it, with her red pen, Wonderful point!

  So Erin went back to the Gabaldon and tried to get absorbed by it once again.

  She gave up after two pages.

  Control your thoughts.

  Erin laughed, surprising herself. An absurd argument was opening up in her head, like in some Mad Hatter Tea Party.

  She shook her head, returned to the book.

  Her phone buzzed.

  Private number.

  She chanced it.

  “Yes?”

  “Hey, Erin!”

  Him.

  “Can you hear me?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I won’t be on long. Just listen. Kyle is safe and sound. You are very close to seeing him.”

  Dear God, did she dare believe it? Dare hang on to this call? Her body felt like it was on an elevator dropping from the sixtieth floor with no safety cables, just the straight drop, accelerating. Her free hand shot outward in an instinctive attempt to grab something.

  “Do you understand?” he said. “How good this is?”

  She couldn’t form a word.

  “All you have to do is wait for my call,” he said.

  “Call?” Erin said. “What do you call this?”

  “Generous,” he said. “You’ll see.”

  “I want to see now.”

  But he was gone.

  41

  “Do you feel like you can talk?” the detective asked.

  “Why am I even here?” Dylan said.

  Here was a spare box of a room at the jail in Van Nuys. He was in a chair at a table, and a detective in a short-sleeve shirt and tie, loosened at the collar, sat in the only other chair in the room.

  The detective was in his late forties. His demeanor was something between a mortician and a CPA at tax time. He had introduced himself as Detective Warren Smith.

  They’d given Dylan a cold pack to hold on the side of his face. Sweet of them.

  At least the cuffs were off. Surely they weren’t arresting him for some sort of assault on the guy who hit him.

  “You’re here on suspicion of murder,” Smith said.

  That word pounded into Dylan’s head like six-penny nail. For a second Dylan’s sight was bathed in red, as if the small room had been lit by a mad cinematographer from a cheap horror move.

  “Do you understand?” Detective Smith said.

  “This is crazy. Where—”

  “I need—”

  “Who died?”

  “—to advise you—”

  “Somebody cracked my head open! Wait … Tabitha?”

  “If you want to continue,” Detective Smith said, “I must advise you of your rights.”

  The devils invaded the carnival, fresh pitchforks in hand, poking right behind the eyes.

  Dylan slammed the cold pack on the table. “I didn’t kill anybody! I got whacked on the side of my head … did you get him? The guy who did this to me?”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Ya think?”

  Smith removed something from his pocket, placed it on the table. “This is a digital recording device,” he said. “If at any time you want to stop the interview, you just tell me and I’ll turn this off.”

  “Go,” Dylan said.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything you say may be used against you in court. Do you understand?”

  “I get all that!”

  “You have the right to the presence of a lawyer both before and during questioning. Do you understand?”

  “Come on.”

  “Please answer yes or no.”

  “Yes!”

  “If you want a lawyer but cannot afford to pay for one, a lawyer will be appointed for you free of charge before questioning. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I’m ready. Now you listen. I didn’t kill anybody.”

  Detective Smith said, “I want to make sure you waive your right to have an attorney present.”

  “Yeah, right. And if I ask for one you’ll think I’m guilty.”

  “We don’t operate that
way, Mr. Reeve.”

  “Just doing your job, huh?”

  “My job is to find the truth, and to make sure that we don’t ask questions unless you voluntarily agree to talk with us. So I’m asking you again if you want to consult an attorney.”

  “I don’t want an attorney. I want you to …”

  “Yes?”

  “Just listen to me.”

  Smith’s expression did not change. “Then let’s begin. Your name is Dylan Reeve?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you personally acquainted with the deceased, Tabitha Mullaney?”

  “How did she die?”

  “Just answer my questions, sir.”

  “The guy who hit me, he must have done it.”

  “What was the nature of your relationship with the deceased?”

  “We met through a dating site,” Dylan said. “I thought things were going well. Then she turned out to be some sort of … I don’t know what you’d call her, a sociopath. She was trying to …”

  “Take your time, Mr. Reeve. Put it in your own words.”

  “I don’t know if I have the words. Do you know about my son?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He was kidnapped. Fifteen years ago. Never found.”

  Detective Smith nodded.

  “A few nights ago I got a note slipped under my door. It was written in crayon. It said, Your son is alive. That’s all. I showed it to my wife. My ex-wife. That wasn’t a good conversation. It brought up all kinds of bad memories.”

  Smith waited.

  “And then I got another note. This one told me what Kyle’s favorite toy had been when he was five. How would somebody know that if they didn’t do it?”

  “Did you take these notes to the police?”

  “I didn’t get the chance.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I went out to dinner with Tabitha that night. I was trying to keep things normal between us. I was beginning to like her. A lot. Then after a very pleasant meal she told me that if I wanted to see my son again I would have to do exactly what she said.”

  “Naturally, that upset you.”

  “Ya think? I … wait, wait.”

  “Yes?”

  “I see what you’re doing.”

  “What am I doing, Mr Reeve?”

  “I’m telling you right now I did not kill her. Yes, I was upset. Wouldn’t you be? But not enough for murder.”

  “Please continue, sir.”

  “She told me not to go to the police. Or anybody else. She said I’d never see him again if I did that.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “I don’t know what I believed. I never thought I’d see Kyle again anyway. I’ve pretty much come to believe that he’s dead and his body will never be found. To have this dangled in front of me, it just messed me up. I thought I would give it some time and maybe …”

  “Would you like a drink of water?” Smith said.

  Dylan shook his head, which brought a rush of pain. He ignored it. “She said she was going to tell me what I should do. I was to come over to this house and talk to her. When I got there a guy was at the door. He got me inside and—”

  “Can you describe this man?”

  “Of course,” Dylan said. “He talked to me. He was a big guy, big chest and arms, bald. In a Hawaiian shirt. Wait a second, you should know that. He’s the one who called the police, who hit me.”

  Smith said, “I just want to get it all from you. How did this man get you to come inside?”

  “He just told me to come in. He said he was the intermediary. That’s the word he used.”

  “And you did? Just like that?”

  “I wanted to find out what was going on. When we got inside he pulled a gun on me. It was already there, under a crate.”

  “A crate?”

  “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. You’ve been there. How did Tabitha die?”

  “Did you have a weapon?” Smith asked.

  “You found it, obviously.”

  “Did you bring it with you?”

  “I didn’t shoot anybody with it, if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

  “Continue,” Smith said.

  “He had me sit down. He sat down, holding his gun. Next thing I know there are sirens. I got up and he whacked me on the side of the head with the gun. I went down and now here I am. And now here you are. I’m not the criminal here. Somebody else killed her.”

  Smith was silent. His expression was exactly the same as the first moment Dylan saw him.

  Dylan said, “You need to find that guy. His name is … I can’t remember.”

  “Milton Carbona,” Smith said. “We interviewed him.”

  “Did you arrest him?”

  “He’s retired from the Los Angeles Police Department.”

  “So?”

  “With an impeccable record. And he says he came to the house at the victim’s request, but you got there first. He found you inside, standing over the body of Tabitha Mullaney.”

  “No—”

  “You pulled your gun and that’s when he hit you.”

  “You can’t believe that!”

  “Why can’t I, Mr. Reeve?”

  “Because … it’s a setup.”

  “Mr. Carbona showed us a client agreement he had with Ms. Mullaney.”

  “For what?”

  “She was afraid you were stalking her.”

  “Come on!”

  “And she wanted you and Mr. Carbona to sit down like adults and talk it through.”

  Dylan leaned back against the metallic chair. There would be no convincing this detective if he bought a story like that. An elaborate noose was being woven by this Carbona and the detective was trying to pull it tight. Forget the presumption of innocence or suspicion of another suspect.

  “Interview over,” Dylan said. “I want a lawyer.”

  “You have that right,” Detective Smith said. He clicked off the recorder.

  “What about my phone call? You still give dangerous criminals a phone call, right?”

  “I’ll let that pass,” Detective Smith said. “Be careful what you say. We’ll have a phone brought in.”

  “I can’t use my own phone?”

  “You are an arrestee.”

  “Unbelievable.” And it was, truly, as unbelievable as having your child taken away from you in broad daylight at a public park. As unbelievable as having your heart ripped out and pounded with a hammer and shoved back into your chest. Yet that all happened, too.

  A few minutes later, a uniformed officer brought in a touchpad phone and plugged it into a jack in the wall.

  Detective Smith nodded.

  “Can I have some privacy, please?” Dylan said.

  “Afraid not,” Detective Smith said.

  “Don’t I have a right to privacy?”

  “Only if you talk to your lawyer.”

  “I want to call my receptionist,” Dylan said. “Her number’s in my phone.”

  Smith said, “I understand. I’ll just be a moment.”

  He went out of the interview room. The uniformed officer stayed.

  “Having a nice night?” Dylan said.

  The officer did not say anything.

  “How ’bout those Dodgers?” Dylan said.

  The officer raised his finger to his lips.

  A minute later Smith came back to the room, holding Dylan’s phone.

  “What’s your receptionist’s name?” he asked.

  “Paige Howe.”

  Smith thumbed Dylan’s phone.

  “You can’t do that,” Dylan said.

  “I can,” Smith said. “Here’s the number.” He read it.

  Dylan punched the numbers on the touchpad phone.

  Paige answered on the third ring.

  “It’s me,” Dylan said.

  “Hiya, boss,” Paige said. “It’s past your bedtime, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve got some bad news. You have something to wri
te with?”

  “Yes …” Her voice was low and tremulous. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m under arrest, and—”

  “For what?”

  “Just listen! And write. I’ve been arrested for something I didn’t do. I’m at the Van Nuys police station. I’m going to be held here. I don’t know how long. I’m going to need you to call all clients and cancel the whole week.”

  “The whole—”

  “Please, just listen. I need you to pick up my car. Do you have someone you can call to go get it?”

  “Yes, I do, but—”

  “There’s an extra car key in the right front drawer of my desk. Now write this down.” He gave her the address and told her the car was parked around the corner.

  “As soon as I sign off, I want you to get hold of Sam Wyant at the law firm of Wyant, Pouler and Ellis. Got that? Tell him where I am and to get down here as soon as he can.”

  “Yes. Should I tell him what you’re charged with?”

  “Yeah, tell him. And I don’t want you to worry about this, because it’s all a big misunderstanding. The charge is murder.”

  The pause on the other end of the call was as palpable as a gas explosion.

  Then Paige said, “Oh my God.”

  “Call him too,” Dylan said.

  42

  Erin dragged herself into the office the next morning feeling like an extra in The Walking Dead. Yumiko was nice enough not to say anything other than, “Let me get you some coffee.”

  “Just bring me the pods,” Erin said. “I’ll eat them like potato chips.”

  Thankfully the next three hours were spent in her admin cubicle facing nothing but a monitor and communicating exclusively with Excel. Companionship was lovingly provided by the Keurig machine in the kitchenette.

  But the voice of the man on the phone played the intruder.

  Erin fought it off each time by concentrating extra hard on her spreadsheets, or by going over paper files with the meticulousness of an OCD accountant. But the voice fought back, and she knew she would hear it again, and soon, for real.

  By eleven she was at least starting to feel less like the Bride of Frankenstein and a little more like a human being.

  At 11:15 she took her turn at the reception desk, hoping for as little walk-in traffic as possible. She just wanted to make it to lunch with a minimum of human interaction.