Your Son Is Alive

by James Scott Bell

  “Thanks for the ride,” Dylan said. “And good luck with the movies.”

  “Look for me on The Tonight Show!” Pete Parris said, and drove off.

  Dylan stood for a moment looking at his house. It was only a temporary abode now. Heck, it could actually be taken away. He had to collateralize it to get the bond and would have to do more of the same to pay his lawyer.

  And there was no guarantee the truth would come out.

  Ever.

  At least his car was in the driveway. Good, reliable Paige.

  He went inside and knew immediately his house had been searched. One thing Dylan had always been was neat. About appearance, about his things. He’d become obsessive about it after Kyle’s kidnapping. One of his coping mechanisms, Dr. Reimer said. Complete control over his immediate surroundings because he was powerless to bring his son back.

  His shrink had even suggested he be purposely sloppy for a while. Dylan tried it. He took out some books from the shelf and left them around the house. That night he couldn’t sleep. He got up at 3:37 and put all the books back, and made sure their spines were even on the shelf.

  But here was a home that had been tossed. Furniture moved, cushions on the floor, throw-rug rolled up and dropped in a corner.

  Fury rising, Dylan went through each room of the house, finding drawers out and clothes on bed and floor. Even his medicine cabinet had been given the once over.

  His computer. Somebody had been at it. The keyboard was slanted about thirty degrees.

  At least they didn’t take it, but it felt like a violation anyway.

  And then he thought, What if it wasn’t the police?

  One way to find out. He fired up the computer and opened the security camera app. He brought up the home screen which showed the four camera-view angles. Gadge Garner had shown him how to watch the pictures in fast motion. Which delivered nothing but a fast-motion cat pooping in his side yard, the mailman, and a nicely dressed woman dropping what turned out to be a real estate flyer. Dylan had tossed it in the waste basket.

  Basically a whole lot of nothing.

  Until the cops arrived. Detective Smith and his partner and two uniformed officers. They went around the whole perimeter. Then disappeared.

  Because they went in the house.

  Dylan sped ahead.

  And whipped past a guy taking pictures of his home.

  Dylan stopped the video and replayed it. The guy was tall and lean, wearing his hair short. Looked around thirty-five. He’d come up to the door and knocked. Then stepped back and took pictures of Dylan’s front porch. He was using what look like an expensive camera. He wore a camera case looped over his shoulder. The time stamp was two days ago, in the morning.

  The sense of intrusion was overwhelming. Yes, it was all over the local news about the popular chiropractor accused of murder. Social media meant people in France and China would hear about it. He knew there was a Facebook group dedicated to civic issues in his part of Whittier. They loved to talk about the crime. Now he would be subject to what in the old days would be called small-town gossip.

  Bringing looky-loos to take pictures of his home. The place where the killer lives!

  A visceral feeling of real homicidal intent came over him. He wondered if he could really do it, kill the guy who was playing him and Erin, and then wondered why he even wondered. It was the law of the jungle now.

  But he would need to play it cool as far as the cops and the law were concerned. They were watching.

  He remembered the Derringer.

  He took it out of the safe and brought it to the kitchen. He got a large plastic bag and put the gun inside. He put a twist tie on the bag. Just like peanut butter and jelly.

  He’d made an appointment to drop the gun off at Sam Wyant’s downtown office. Since the cops had his cell phone, Dylan used his landline, the one he had thankfully not cancelled, and called Erin. He asked if he could drop by her place when she got home from work.

  She seemed happy to say yes.

  67

  Erin opened the door, and at the same time they took a step toward each other, and embraced.

  “I am so glad you’re out of that jail,” Erin said.

  “You’re not nervous being around a hardened criminal?” Dylan said.

  “No jokes.”

  “Laugh or die,” Dylan said. “Remember we used to say that when we first got married?”

  They walked into the late-afternoon light of the living room.

  “I like that you get so much sun in here,” Dylan said.

  “In the morning it’s direct,” Erin said. “In the afternoon it reflects off the buildings at Universal. At sunset everything is orange.”

  “So you get real light and fake light.”

  “It’s hot, whatever it is,” she said. “I need to get better glass on the sliding door.”

  He smiled at that. It reminded him of the home they’d bought when Kyle was two. How they sat down together that night over glasses of wine and made plans for improvements. They’d had the place painted, got a new front door. They were talking about putting on an addition for the new baby they’d planned on having …

  Dylan’s smile faded. He looked out the window. He was barely aware of lowering himself to the sofa.

  “I need to show you something,” Erin said. She went to the dining room table and got something, came back, handed it to Dylan.

  It was a note.

  Mom, I want to see you again.

  “Where’d this come from?” Dylan said.

  “From him,” Erin said, sitting beside him. “He must have followed me, out to the jail, to the Jack-in-the-Box where I stopped. Dylan, he was wearing a Cubs hat.”

  Dylan tensed. “I saw him, too. In the courtroom.”

  “I hate this!” Erin said.

  As if it were as natural as breathing, Dylan put his arm around Erin’s shoulder and pulled her close. She let him, and he was astonished by the letting, as if a gift of incredible worth had been handed to him with no strings attached.

  After a long moment, Dylan said, “Remember that time we rented the beach house in Ventura?”

  “I’ll never forget it,” Erin said.

  “Kyle was three.”

  “He’d just turned three.”

  “He started talking a blue streak around then,” Dylan said. “Like somebody threw a switch.”

  “He loved to talk,” Erin said. “Just like his father.”

  “And I went out and did some body surfing, the two of you were watching me, and when I came back to the sand he was excited, he said, ‘Daddy, you swam inside the water!’ ”

  “I remember that,” Erin said.

  “And then when we were walking home, on that little street—”

  “Shelburn Lane.”

  “And Kyle ran a little bit ahead and ducked behind one of those cinder block walls those houses have.”

  “And he hid.”

  “From us,” Dylan said. “Of course, when he shouted, ‘Find me!’ it made our task a little easier.”

  “But you kept saying, ‘Where’s Kyle? Where is he?’ ”

  “When I came around the wall, he was standing there with his eyes closed, completely still, as if that made him invisible. So I waited. I waited for him to open his eyes. And when he did and saw me, he didn’t run away, he just laughed and laughed and jumped up and down. Like he didn’t know what to do next. Hidden? Found? I see him there, Erin, frozen, eyes closed. And I wait for him to open his eyes, but he doesn’t …”

  A fist in his throat blocked off the words. He closed his eyes.

  “I got some advice today,” Erin said. “From a little old lady who looked like she knows.”

  “What little old lady?”

  “Just someone I bumped into.”

  “Oh?”

  “She said the two best prayers are ‘Help me, help me, help me’ and ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ ”

  “Works for me,” Dylan said. “So why don’t
we run right at this guy?”

  Erin sat up. “Meaning what?”

  “No more giving in, letting him make all the calls.”

  “I like it,” Erin said.

  Dylan smiled. “Can you take the day off tomorrow?”

  “I think so.”

  “Because I have an idea.”

  68

  Dylan picked up Erin the next morning at ten. They headed for the underpass on Tujunga where the Hollywood and Ventura freeways crossed.

  Driving there now was like visiting a side street in an undeveloped country. Tenants and boxes and overstuffed shopping carts made up a village of the damned. Los Angeles was experiencing an influx of homeless due to weather and California’s legalization of marijuana.

  Dylan pulled the car to a stop on Riverside Drive.

  “You sure you want to do this?” Dylan said.

  “We’ve come this far,” Erin said.

  “You can wait here in the car if you like.”

  “Not on your life. We’re in this together.”

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it once. And without another word they got out of the car.

  They approached the encampment slowly. No way Dylan was going charge right into the heart of the assembled and makeshift homes. It would be like trespassing.

  On the corner just before the underpass, as cars whizzed by above, Dylan stopped and looked into the gray of the shadowy world. Not much movement. He could make out one large body inert on the ground, presumably sleeping, though death would not be a shock here.

  Further on, a woman was screaming epithets. A shirtless man whose ribs were visible even from where Dylan and Erin stood, walked over to the woman and said something. She continued her tirade. The man waved his arms. The woman ignored the gestures and turned her back to him and went on with the harangue.

  The shirtless man followed her, stepped around in front of her, then hit her in the mouth with his fist. She stumbled backward and fell on her rear end. She didn’t say anything else. She put her head in her hands. The man helped her to her feet and put his arms around her.

  A voice behind them said, “Married life.”

  Dylan turned. A young man stood there, also shirtless, and leaner than good health would call for. His hair was long and stringy and his jeans sagged on his hips.

  He had no shoes.

  “You live here?” Dylan asked, and immediately felt foolish, like he was referring to some suburban development with fences and yards. But of course, for these people, it was something like that after all.

  Stringy Hair smiled. He was missing at least four teeth. The ones that were left were brownish. “You reporters?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not cops.

  “No. Just looking for some information.”

  “How come?” Stringy Hair said.

  “It’s about a man who was shot about a week ago. He lived down here. Called himself Hacksaw.”

  Stringy Hair shrugged.

  “Did you know him?” Dylan said.

  “You got some money?” Stringy Hair said.

  “A little.”

  He shook his head. “Someone such as you is likely to have quite a bit.” The guy spoke with good enunciation, as if educated in the art of rhetoric.

  “We’re trying to find out who Hacksaw was dealing with, somebody who drove a black car.”

  “It’s going to cost you.”

  “Do you know?”

  “Payment, please.” Stringy Hair smiled again. The rotting pylons of his teeth pushed against dried, cracked lips.

  Dylan pulled out his wallet and turned slightly, so Stringy Hair couldn’t see the contents. He pulled out a five-dollar bill. He closed his wallet and turned and stuck out the five. Stringy Hair took it and said, “It needs a mate.”

  “I gave you some money,” Dylan said. “Now your turn.”

  “This is worth at least a twenty.”

  “No way,” Dylan said

  Stringy Hair put the five in his pocket and looked at Dylan as if challenging him to get it back.

  Erin said, “How come you’re here?”

  “Huh?” Stingy Hair said.

  “Here,” Erin said. “On the street.”

  “You should know,” he said, and it seemed to Dylan there was some sort of secret connection going on between this guy and Erin. She had an instinct about her. She could connect with people.

  “Drugs?” Erin said.

  “What else would it be?” Stringy Hair said.

  “You have a mother?” Erin said.

  Stringy Hair said, “Kicked me out.”

  “You deserved to be kicked out, didn’t you?” Erin said.

  He looked at her without expression.

  “Right?” Erin said.

  “So?”

  “Give him the twenty,” Erin said to Dylan.

  With a sense of wonder and dread, Dylan fished a twenty out of his wallet and handed it over.

  “Now tell us what you know,” Erin said.

  Stringy Hair said, “Not me.”

  “We had a deal!” Erin said.

  “I’ll take you to the guy who can tell you.”

  “Jerome.”

  “Whu … ?”

  “Jerome, wake up.”

  Stringy Hair was talking to a snoozing fat man sitting in a folding chair that was almost entirely hidden by his girth.

  “Whatchou want?” Jerome said. His heavy eyelids moved achingly upward.

  “Who was that guy with Hacksaw?” Stringy Hair said.

  The skin around Jerome’s cheeks moved. His eyes changed from slits to circles.

  “How come?” Jerome said.

  “Good people here,” Stringy Hair said.

  “Ain’t no good people,” Jerome said.

  “They want to find out who killed Hacksaw.”

  Jerome gave Dylan and Erin a slow scan.

  “Dead and done,” Jerome said.

  “Be friendly,” Stringy Hair said.

  “Too hot to be friendly.” Jerome laced his fingers over his stomach. “Got any money?”

  “Not as much as I used to,” Dylan said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  Erin said, “Come on. Let’s go. Nothing here.”

  Dylan looked at her, asking with his eyes what she was doing. She took his arm and started to walk him away.

  “Hold up,” Jerome said. “Let’s see what you got.”

  Erin reached in her back pocket and pulled something out. Dylan was surprised to see a couple of folded bills in her hand.

  Jerome held his hand out to take it. Erin shook her head. “First you tell us what we want to know.”

  “All depends on what you want to know,” Jerome said.

  “The name of the man who picked up Hacksaw in a black car.”

  “Yeah,” Jerome said. “That’s something I know.”

  “Let’s have it,” Erin said.

  “What you got in your hands?”

  “You can find out,” Erin said.

  Jerome thought about it. Then said, “Frozo.”

  “Frozo?” Erin said.

  “ ’Swhat I said. Frozo.”

  “What kind of name is that?” Stringy Hair said.

  “I don’t make ’em up,” Jerome said. “That’s what he called him. Frozo. Like yogurt or somethin’.” He reached out and snatched the bills from Erin’s hand. Counted it.

  “Six bucks?” he said. “That’s all?”

  “You wanted to see what I had,” Erin said. “And that’s it.”

  Jerome leaned forward in a strained attempt to get up. The look on his face was not friendly. Stringy Hair put a hand on Jerome’s shoulder and kept him down.

  Over his shoulder, Stringy Hair said, “You better go now.”

  Dylan took Erin’s hand and started walking.

  Erin looked back at Stringy Hair and said, “Call your mother.”

  From somewhere close a booming voice shouted curses that echoed underneath the freeway
.

  69

  “What exactly were you doing back there?” Dylan said as they drove away.

  “Negotiating,” Erin said. “Start to walk away. Let the other side call you back.”

  “How did you happen to have money in your pocket?”

  “I always carry a few dollars in my back pocket. Emergencies. “

  “Isn’t that what you used to do in high school?” Dylan said.

  “You remember,” Erin said.

  “Yeah,” Dylan said. “I remember everything about you.”

  They drove in silence as Dylan got on the freeway heading toward downtown.

  He said, “Frozo? That’s not a real name. What were we expecting? A Social Security number and photo?”

  Erin said, “Hacksaw and Frozo. Sounds like a vaudeville act.”

  “You still make me smile,” Dylan said.

  “I’m glad,” Erin said.

  “You know I didn’t kill that woman.”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  “I liked her. But she didn’t compare to you.”

  “Maybe we better not say anything like that right now. We’re like soldiers on the battlefield, liable to say things we’ll want to take back later.”

  “I’m not going to take it back,” Dylan said. “I’m glad you’re with me right now.”

  “One more thing then,” Erin said, “in the interest of full disclosure.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “I went on my first date since the divorce the other night. One of the students asked me out.”

  “You’ve got my attention,” Dylan said.

  Erin said, “He’s young enough to be my … younger brother. I don’t know what he sees in me.”

  “I do,” Dylan said.

  70

  Dylan’s house in Whittier was quaint, inviting. Reminded Erin of Dylan in high school. He always dressed sharp, but never pretentious. He wasn’t into the Who cares? look so many of the kids were. Ripped jeans and Ts were all the rage the year they met. Rebellion was popular. That’s why everybody looked the same.