“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll spring it on you, as a surprise. A loving surprise.”
“No! You will not—”
The call dropped.
54
On Thursday morning they bussed Dylan and several other prisoners to the courthouse in San Fernando. They were herded into one big holding cell where they sat on benches like third-string football players, waiting to be told they were cut from the team.
A little after nine o’clock, a couple of deputy sheriffs herded Dylan and half a dozen others through a door that led into a courtroom. They were told to sit in the jury box.
Sam Wyant was in the courtroom, looking regal in a three-piece suit. He was chatting with the bailiff as Dylan took his place in the box. He said something that made the bailiff smile.
Working the room, Dylan thought. That’s why he gets the big bucks.
Sam walked over to the jury box and motioned for Dylan to stand.
“They treating you okay?” Wyant asked.
“I’m eating like a king,” Dylan said. “What do I do now?”
“The judge will call our case. You stand up and say nothing until the judge asks how you plead.”
“When can I get out on bail?”
“I’ll get us a hearing.”
“A hearing?”
“On bail.”
“Why not right now?”
Sam Wyant shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way for a felony. One step at a time.”
“Make it two steps,” Dylan said.
Sam Wyant patted him on the arm.
The judge’s name was Alex Avakian. He looked fiftyish, with black hair and deep complexion. He handled a few matters, including one chewing out of a seemingly clueless defense counsel, then called Dylan’s case.
Sam Wyant stood like a potentate greeting a fellow ruler. Dylan stood as instructed.
“Good morning, your honor. Sam Wyant for the defendant, Dylan Reeve. We will waive a reading of the complaint and statement of rights and are ready to enter a plea.”
“Very well,” the judge said. He looked at Dylan. “Mr. Reeve, has counsel explained to you what’s happening this morning?”
“Yes, your honor,” Dylan said.
“You understand the charge against you is murder under California Penal Code section 187?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
Judge Avakian looked at his computer monitor “We will set this matter for preliminary hearing on . . . March twenty-seven at nine a.m. How’s that work?”
The prosecutor, a sharply dressed woman who looked fresh out of law school, said, “Fine for the People.”
Sam Wyant said, “I’ll be returning from Puerto Vallarta that day, your honor.”
“Oh? A little fishing?”
“I have a house there,” Wyant said.
“A little tequila drinking?”
“A lot, I’m hoping.”
“Well, we can kick this to the twenty-eighth if the People are open.”
“I’d rather go to Puerto Vallarta,” the prosecutor said.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the judge said. “The twenty-eighth it is, nine o’clock.”
Dylan looked at the players and thought, how can they be so congenial? When a man was standing before them being set up for murder?
Sam Wyant said, “May we be heard on the issue of bail?”
“Have the People received notice?” the judge said.
“We have not,” said the prosecutor.
Judge Avakian looked at his monitor again. “Bail hearing Monday at ten o’clock?”
“All right for the People,” the prosecutor said.
“All right for the defense,” Sam Wyant said.
Not all right for me, Dylan thought. Two more days in jail. Not all right.
55
And so there was running.
It was how she escaped, the sensation of movement and street and her body trying to reach a limit. Something to look forward to. It brought a forgetfulness, a way to become one with legs and pavement and lungs, so that nothing was interfering, no sadnesses dragging her down. Running put her inside a bubble of breath and motion, the rhythm of heart and feet.
She ran in the twilight. Even though she was on the busy strip of asphalt that joined North Hollywood and Studio City, even though she was slightly aware of the looks of admiration—There goes an older woman running, looking lean, good for her!—she made herself think of oceans and sunlight and laughing children on the beach. It was a way to keep other pictures out of her consciousness.
She ran easily but with just the right amount of push to make her body work, for that is what she wanted—the rush of adrenaline and sweat.
She turned down Burbank Boulevard and was happy to see there was another runner coming her way. A younger version of herself, in fact. A ponytailed woman in a tank top with an armband holding an MP3 player and earbuds. When they passed each other they gave the runner’s nod, a sign of approval, and it made Erin feel like she was a part of an exclusive sorority of running women, showing the world what they were made of.
She had a favorite course that took her through a residential neighborhood. Here there were retirees watering lawns and young couples pushing baby carriages or walking dogs. She always gave a smile and gentle wave. They always waved back. If only life could be this way all the time! What was it Sam Cooke sang? What a wonderful world it would be.
But then her mind would betray her, and she would think it’s not a wonderful world, not even close. And that would make her push some more, run harder, make her lungs burn for oxygen.
To forget.
As she made her way down a familiar lane, street lights coming on and a few cars returning home, she sensed that a light behind her was not quite right.
It was an instinct born of hundreds of these runs. She looked over her shoulder and saw a car—dark blue of some kind, with headlights on—cruising slowly, matching her pace.
Perhaps the car was being cautious about a runner on the street. She had on her reflective-mesh running vest, and her New Balance shoes with giant Ns that were almost mirrors.
This wasn’t a busy nor particularly narrow street. No reason the car couldn’t go easily past her and on its merry way.
But it didn’t.
For forty yards or so it kept itself at exactly the same distance.
Erin banked to the sidewalk. She didn’t like running on concrete, especially on these L.A. sidewalks where tree roots often pushed up sections that could lead to nasty trip-and-falls.
A quick look at the car.
It was speeding up.
She took a sharp turn at the corner.
The headlights followed.
And flashed brights at her.
She never brought her cell phone when she ran. She never wanted to be one of those who was tied to her phone all the time, like the students at DeForest who all had neck problems from looking down. Or she laughingly supposed.
She wasn’t laughing now.
The car suddenly burned rubber and came up fast, passed her. It had darkened windows. She couldn’t see inside. The car screeched to stop at the curb, ten yards in front of her.
Erin turned and sprinted back the way she’d come.
And heard the roar of the car, the squeal of tires.
Get to back to the main drag. Burbank Boulevard. To people.
The headlights hit her again.
56
Dylan Reeve, county inmate booking #4684921, lay on his back on a bottom bunk, looking at the underside of the upper. Not like the movies. Not Jimmy Cagney or Bogart. No escape plans. No Tim Robbins tunnel from Shawshank Redemption. Nobody rooting for you. No one calling the governor to get you a pardon.
Instead, you’re in a jail cell with a clammy coldness on your skin, feeling the prickles as if they were a permanent rash. You felt this before, yes, that time, you were twelve and Dad called you to c
ome sit with him in the study.
Mom was at the hospital, but hospitals were where they made you better. They had doctors and nurses and machines and medicine, and it would be all right.
Dad sat you down and put his hands on your shoulders, something he hadn’t done before. He wasn’t crying but his eyes were wet. That’s when you got scared, when the coldness hit your skin.
“Listen, champ,” Dad said, “you and I, we’ve got to get ready for something, okay? It won’t be easy, okay?”
You knew it then, you knew Mom wouldn’t be coming home. The frozen pinpricks up and down your arms.
“Can’t they help her?” you said, your voice squeaky.
“They’re going to try, but it’s a rare form. It’s not something they know that much about. And …”
Dad paused to catch a breath, but he never finished the sentence.
You felt that sense of powerlessness, and then loss, even though you would see her for a few weeks yet, see her weak and thin and helpless. Hating it and crying when you were alone.
Getting behind in school.
Giving up.
Until you figured out you had to go on.
Well now you have that same choice, don’t you?
It starts in your mind, man. Only you can decide. Only you can do it.
57
“Are you insane?” Erin let the anger flow like Gatorade. Her body was amped from the running. She had no desire to be calm.
“Wait a second,” Andy said.
He was standing by his stupid, frosted-window car just off Burbank. It had taken her a moment to recognize his voice.
“No, you wait a second,” Erin said. “What are you following me like that for?”
“I was coming over to show you my new car,” he said. “So I’m driving and I see you running. I thought it would make a nice surprise.”
“So you follow me and flash your lights?”
“I was obviously trying to get your attention.”
“It didn’t occur to you I might think you some kind of crazy person?”
“I’m innocent, I tells ya.”
“Don’t make light of this. I’ve had some bad things happen to me in the last couple of days.”
Andy took a step toward her, arms out.
Erin stepped back and gestured for him to stop right there.
Andy said, “That’s another reason I was coming over. Yumiko told me what happened. It was on the news. I wanted to see you and see what I could do for you.”
“Next time just call and leave a message and wait for me to get back to you, how does that sound?”
“Of course. But I do want to help you.”
“You best stay out of this. It’s in the hands of the police.”
“I can at least be with you. Be a support.”
“Andy, you’re a nice guy—”
“Uh-oh.”
“No, listen. I mean it. But it’s just not going to work out between us. Especially not right now.”
“I don’t think you really mean that.”
“I don’t care what you think. I’m telling you.”
Andy folded his arms. “I’m not going to give up on us.”
“There is no us,” Erin said. “I’m telling you to give it up. I don’t need a persistent suitor-slash-stalker at the moment, if you don’t mind.”
Andy’s face hardened. “Thank you so much for calling me a stalker.”
He spun around and went to the driver’s side of the car.
“Andy …”
Saying nothing, he got in and slammed the door. A second later he gunned the car away from the curb.
58
“Come over here,” Petrie said.
The kid didn’t come.
“You hear me?” Petrie said.
The kid held the broom close to his body and looked at the floor. At times like this he never looked Petrie in the eye. He was standing by the wall near the concession stand.
“You don’t come over here you know what’s gonna happen.” Petrie said.
Slowly, keeping eyes down, and holding the broom like a security blanket, the kid shambled over and stood in front of Petrie.
“I got another complaint about the bathroom,” Petrie said. “You know how I like the bathrooms. Right?”
The kid didn’t answer. His eyes were still cast down.
“Right?”
The kid gave one nod.
“That’s better,” Petrie said. He put his arm around the kid’s neck, pulled the kid’s head to his chest. “You know I’m the only one can help you, right?”
Nod.
“Always have, always will,” Petrie said. “You’ve just got to remember to do exactly what I say all the time. Right?”
Nod.
“Good, good.” Petrie kissed the top of the kid’s head. “Now go do the front bathrooms, and remember how I told you to make them so clean you could eat off the floors? Go on. Show me what you can do.”
59
Erin woke on Saturday morning as if emerging from a dream. For a few seconds her room, her bed, the ceiling—even the light—seemed unfamiliar. She could have been anywhere, from a motel in some backwater town to the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland.
When she finally came to herself, she felt a residue of anger from Andy’s stupid stunt coating her thoughts. She got out of bed and made a beeline for the coffee machine.
Twenty minutes later she was making plans for the day, which included a drive out to visit Dylan. Why they had him all the way out in Castaic was a mystery to her. But then again nothing about the past ten days was making any sense.
A little after ten she got a call from Detective Murray.
“Just wanted to let you know,” he said, “that the victim was a homeless man who apparently went by the name Hacksaw. He stayed mostly under the freeway overpass on Tujunga. There are others down there, not all that reliable or helpful. Would your ex-husband have known anyone by that name?”
“I have no idea. I can ask.”
“I would appreciate that. Maybe we can talk again soon.”
“Sure,” Erin said, ending the call abruptly. And then thought, Hacksaw? Whatever happened to Bill or Fred?
60
Dylan wanted to reach through the Plexiglas and hold Erin’s hand. He might as well have been in Siberia with a phone hookup.
“I can’t believe you’re in jail,” Erin said into the handset.
Dylan said, “You know I didn’t do this.”
“Of course not. Not for a second. I can’t stand that you’re in here.”
“I’ll get out on bail. I’ve got a good lawyer. An expensive one, but good.”
Erin closed her eyes, took a breath.
“What about you?” Dylan said. “How are you getting along?”
“Dylan, something really strange and horrible has happened.”
“More than this?”
“Let me tell you. I can’t make sense of it. That man called me, the one who wrote the notes. He knows where I work, my habits. He told me to go to the little market I go to sometimes, to wait for a phone call at the public phone. A man was there, a crazy looking man, like someone on drugs. Or off them. He was using the phone and screaming. When he finally got off I went to the phone to wait, and he came back and jumped at me.”
Dylan squeezed the handset.
“But just then,” Erin said, “he was shot.”
“Shot!”
“Right next to me. It was awful.”
“Who shot him?”
“I don’t know! The police say it was a rifle shot. It hit him in …”
“It’s okay, Erin, take your time”
She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes with her free hand. “It got him in the head. The police came and a detective talked to me. I told him everything but then he showed me something they took out of the dead man’s pocket. Dylan, it was your business card.”
“How … who was this man?”
“He was some homeless man w
ho called himself Hacksaw.”
“Hacksaw?”
“I know. Crazy, right? Dylan, what is going on?”
Dylan shook his head. “We are both being played for some reason.”
“Do you think they know where Kyle is?”
“If this was really about Kyle, they’d have given us proof and asked for money.”
“But they knew about Harry Potter.”
“Information they could have gotten somehow.”
Erin was silent for a long moment. Even after ten years apart, Dylan could read her face. She’d always had a transparency about her. It was one of the things he loved about Erin when they’d started dating. In her were no hidden chambers, no dank closets obscured behind false fronts.
Once, during those first awful weeks after Kyle was taken, Erin tried to put on a steel mask, a look of coping and confidence. He loved her for that, too, even as the mask melted into hot tears almost as soon as it appeared. They’d been at a restaurant, trying to eat like normal people, knowing they’d never be normal again. The food was largely uneaten. And as Dylan attempted to make conversation he saw the mask, saw the effort. Erin said something, the first strong and hopeful utterance since the taking, and he was surprised and pleased. He reached for her hand then. It was cold to the touch. He wrapped his fingers around hers and squeezed softly. The steel mask lasted another second and then was gone.
Now Dylan wanted to take her hand again. He wanted it more than anything at this very moment. He put his own hand on the Plexiglas, fingers spread, trying to send heat through to her.
Erin put her palm on the glass, meeting his.
“We’ll get through this,” she said.
He saw the steel in her look, only this time it was natural on her, softer somehow on the features, yet stronger, too, as if it had been part of her all along.
Dylan nodded.
Simultaneously, they put their hands down. As if a vow had been taken and a sacred commitment made.
Your Son Is Alive Page 15
