by Alan Russell
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll have my pho with the flank steak on the side.”
“Got it. The only thing we haven’t worked out is my delivery charge.”
“I will make sure matters are worked out to your satisfaction, madam.”
It was dark by the time Sirius and I set out for Central L.A., and the sky made it look even later than it was. A rare April storm was threatening to descend upon Los Angeles. I programmed the address into the GPS, and we began our drive. For once I didn’t have a tune in my head, so I checked what was playing on L.A.’s classic rock stations. I passed on an Aerosmith song, but then stopped my search when I heard the familiar tremolo of a rhythm guitar that was the opening for the Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter.”
Mick’s singing seemed to be a commentary on the darkening sky: a storm was on its way.
And then the voice of Merry Clayton did its best to make the little hairs on my neck rise. In her powerhouse emoting, her words were electrically charged; cracking with emotion she screamed of rape and murder.
And everything, all the madness, was just a shot away. It was close, too close. I could feel it.
I was on my way to a site where a woman had died, but my thoughts weren’t only on Andrea Rhodes. Heather Moreland was also in my thoughts. Andrea Rhodes had been dead for years; I hoped Heather was still alive. I hoped she had found shelter.
We headed into the storm.
Even though it seems as if there are a lot of bicycle riders on L.A. streets, the city isn’t very bicycle friendly. Among Langston’s paperwork I had found maps of Los Angeles, and among that paperwork he had made the notation of a “comfortable street.” I wondered if I’d arrived at the location of that comfortable street and the spot of the circled X on his map. When I’d originally looked at the maps, I’d never considered that they’d been designed for the city’s bicyclists. The colored lines showed existing bikeway systems, proposed pathways, interconnections that were needed, and potential study corridors.
As L.A. streets go, Dalton Avenue was a quiet residential road east of Culver City. Because it wasn’t a main thoroughfare and didn’t directly lead to any major streets, it was less congested than most. There are lots of streets around L.A. that qualify as death traps for cyclists, but this wasn’t one of them. The bicycle lane was well marked and roomy. Still, this was the street where a hit-and-run driver had taken Andrea Rhodes’s life.
I drove along Dalton in search of the exact spot where Andrea had died. Even though she’d gone up and over a curb onto the sidewalk to try and escape being hit by the drunk driver, neither the sidewalk nor curb had stopped the vehicle. Supposedly the car was going close to fifty miles an hour, twice the residential street’s speed limit, when it struck her bicycle. Although Andrea was wearing a helmet, her headgear wasn’t enough to spare her. She was thrown into the air some thirty feet, and didn’t survive the impact.
In the darkness I saw a white glow, and pulled over to the side of the road. Chained to a streetlamp was a whitewashed bicycle that gave off a spectral look.
Sirius and I jumped out of the car and walked over to the bicycle. Even the lock that was binding it to the streetlamp had been spray-painted white. The bicycle wasn’t operational; it had no chain, seat, or gears. But it wasn’t ornamental either. The bicycle was there for a purpose. Atop its crossbar a black Sharpie had been used to write the message, “RIP Andrea,” along with the date of her death.
I took some pictures of the bicycle, and then I sat there staring at it. Near the front wheel I could see the remains of dried-out flowers. The white bicycle was a shrine.
Sirius and I went back to the car. I’d brought along my laptop and hot spot, and used them to call up a search engine. After typing in the words “white bikes in L.A.,” I found myself staring at the first hit that came up: ghost bikes. My mouth fell open, and opened some more when I started scanning the other hits. I saw such entries as “Los Angeles ghost bikes, ghost bikes in L.A., ghost bikes memorialize cyclists killed on streets,” and “ghost Bikes of L.A. art exhibit.”
And then there was the search engine hit that said, “These photos of L.A. ghost bikes will haunt you.”
They had already haunted me without my even knowing it. I was sure I’d found Langston Walker’s ghost. And I became that much more certain when I clicked on a website showing the locations of L.A.’s ghost bikes. The map correlated with the Xs I’d seen on Walker’s map. At each spot, ghost bikes had been left to memorialize those bicyclists killed by hit-and-run drivers.
“X marks the spot,” I told Sirius. “I should have seen it. I should have known.”
X was where Andrea Rhodes had died. She’d been killed on a street where she should have been safe. Andrea Rhodes had been targeted for death.
My oracle had told me. I had seen Langston Walker in a mirror, or through a mirror. It was better than Alice through the looking glass. He had held up a sign. The answer had been before my eyes. But what I had seen was 0 8 4. The mirror had reversed the numbers. The LAPD police code for a felony hit-and-run that has caused great bodily injury or death is 480. Walker had noted the number in his paperwork, and my subconscious must have picked up on it.
I heard an engine start up, but my adrenaline was pumping too hard for me to take any notice of it. Langston had reopened the Andrea Rhodes homicide. The RHD detective who’d worked the case had arrested Donald Warren. It was Warren’s car that had struck and killed Andrea Rhodes. But the suspect had died before the trial. Something had made Walker rethink that investigation. Doubts had surfaced. Maybe it was that Hamlet line he referenced, where he wrote about someone who was “protesting” too much. James Rhodes?
I suspected Andrea’s husband had joined the 187 Club so as to appear an appropriately grieving spouse. In the normal course of most homicide investigations, if a wife is murdered, the husband is invariably the prime suspect. Rhodes would have done his best to keep up the fiction of pining for his wife. But something had made Walker suspicious. He’d gone so far as to talk with Rhodes on the night I spoke to the 187 Club. I suspected Walker hadn’t been sure of his findings, but he’d probably told Rhodes he was reopening the case. Rhodes had known about Walker’s Cactus to Clouds trek. Everyone in the 187 Club did. Walker’s suspicions had likely gotten him killed.
The squeal of tires made me look up. A pickup truck, driving without lights, was flying toward my parked car. I had only a split second to react. I kicked off from the floorboard, propelling myself to the backseat. I tried to throw myself over Sirius. I was trying to save myself; I was trying to save my partner.
And then there was impact, and I was a car-crash dummy. Because the ignition was off, the airbags didn’t deploy, and I pinballed from one side of the car to the other.
Tilt. Game over.
I couldn’t move. I wasn’t even semiconscious. Thoughts didn’t enter my head so much as sensations. Speech was beyond me; I couldn’t form words. There was this din in my head, this static. I couldn’t tune in to the station that was my brain. My eyes were open and my ears were functional, but it was almost like they belonged to another. I felt like a spectator watching from above, dispassionate and unmoving.
I heard footsteps running up to my car. A shadow moved outside, working its way from the truck to my vehicle. In some part of my brain, I could hear the tinkle of liquid. Then, through the broken glass, a head showed itself. A hand holding what looked like a baster extended its way toward me. Why does someone have a baster? I wondered. It wasn’t Thanksgiving. The body in the car, the body that was mine, couldn’t respond.
A snarl broke through my static. I could hear it even in my wilderness. I was lost, but it grounded me. It kept me from leaving, but I still couldn’t move.
From above I watched the show, my reception improving. After the snarl came a scream, and the hand that had been advancing toward me was now trying to retreat through the window, but my partner wasn’t letting it go. He was shaking it from side to side
like he would have a poisonous snake. The body attached to the arm screamed, and screamed some more. There was more savaging of the arm, but I was only semiconscious. It was only the screaming that kept me from completely going under.
At some point Sirius must have let go of the arm. While I drifted in and out of consciousness, my protector stood over me. He barked with deadly purpose, warning the world to stay their distance. His mouth foamed as he raged at the night. I remember waking once and seeing the blood on his fur, and hoping it belonged to James Rhodes, the man who’d tried to kill me.
I tried to say, “Good boy,” but I’m not sure if I was able to utter the words before blacking out again.
CHAPTER 38
FIGHTING CRIME BY BITING CRIME
I opened my eyes and saw Lisbet sitting in a chair next to my hospital bed. Her eyes were closed, and she was praying.
“Where’s my pho?” I whispered.
She opened her eyes and started laughing and crying, and then she said, “Michael, what am I going to do with you?”
“Unmentionable things, I hope.” I tried unsuccessfully to speak with more than a whisper.
“No brain damage,” she said, but then added, “Or at least no more than was already there. Thank God!”
Sirius awakened at the sound of our voices and struggled to rise.
“It’s all right, buddy,” I said, but he insisted upon getting up and planting his head right next to me.
It was then I noticed the IV tubes snaking into my arm, but that didn’t stop me from scratching behind his ear.
“So ist brav,” I whispered to him. German is not usually the first language I think of when it comes to endearments, but he knew I was telling him what a good boy he was.
That was when Lisbet lost it, sobbing hard into her hands. I’m not sure which of us was more uncomfortable with her tears; both Sirius and I tried comforting her.
“They had to call me, Michael,” she said. “Sirius wouldn’t let the EMTs get to you. He kept everyone at bay, including the police and animal control. He was standing over you, and was ready to protect you with his life.”
That’s when I had to fight back my own tears, and poor Sirius didn’t know what to do. He went back and forth between me and Lisbet, trying to comfort both of us, and it was his earnest efforts that enabled us to start laughing. At least that made my poor, confused partner happy.
“James Rhodes?” I asked.
“As far as I know, he’s still in the ER being operated on,” said Lisbet. “One of the doctors told me there are thirty-eight bones in the hand, and Sirius broke all thirty-eight.”
“Rhodes was going to burn me alive,” I said. “He was trying to mask the crime scene, just as he did with his wife and with Langston. I’m guessing he stole the truck, just like he stole Donald Warren’s car. He was putting down a trail of accelerant between the truck and my car. I’m sure he studied up on car crashes to try and fool forensics. His only mistake was putting his hand into the car.”
“That hand will never be the same,” said Lisbet. “I was told Sirius broke fifteen of his sixteen wrist bones, and eight of his ten shoulder and arm bones.”
“Only eight of ten?” I said to Sirius, adding a tsk-tsk.
He heard the love in my voice; that was all that mattered.
“When I walked up to your car, Michael, I was scared. There was blood all over Sirius. His ears were back and he was growling, and it was this throaty, scary sound I’d never heard before. I had to talk with him for a minute before he calmed down, and then it took me another minute to persuade him to let the paramedics see to you. I was afraid his loyalty might kill you.”
I fought off tearing up again. It’s the drugs they gave me, I tried to tell myself.
“Luckily, the doctors say you look worse than you really are. Having been thrown around like you were, they say you could have suffered traumatic brain injury, internal injuries, and paralysis, but it looks like you escaped with only contusions and cracked ribs.”
“Does that mean I can go home?”
“It means in the morning the doctors can look you over from head to toe to get a better read of your condition. They told me that when it comes to car crashes, it’s likely you’ll feel worse the second day.”
“I’m feeling okay.”
“That’s the drugs talking. The doctors shot you full of pain medication.”
I fought back a yawn, but Lisbet noticed. “Don’t fight off sleep. That’s what your body needs.”
“What time is it?”
She checked her cell phone. “It’s ten thirty.”
“It’s past your bedtime,” I said.
“You think I could sleep after what happened to you?”
“You’re asking me to sleep after what happened to me.”
“This isn’t some negotiation.”
“You know why you should leave? Because I’ll have trouble sleeping knowing that you’re sitting there.”
“You need someone watching over you.”
“Let Sirius take the first shift.”
“Sirius needs someone watching over him as well. He was in your car with you.”
I didn’t tell her that I had shielded him, at least somewhat, from the impact. And as it turned out, trying to save him had saved me. My partner’s head was still on my bed. His ears were up; he knew we were talking about him.
“If I know you’re sitting in this room, I’m going to want to wake up just to talk to you,” I said, “and maybe do a little canoodling.”
“I hear the pain meds talking,” she said.
“You hear the pitter-patter of my heart, and I’m not talking about the EKG machine.”
I angled my head toward her, and Lisbet rewarded me with a kiss.
“So we either kiss all night, or you go and get some sleep,” I said.
“Did I already mention that you’re impossible?”
“You already did.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure.”
“All right; I’ll be back here first thing in the morning.”
“Maybe you’ll bring me my bowl of pho,” I said.
“Maybe I’ll eat your bowl of pho,” said Lisbet, and we kissed again.
She stood up and tried to get the kinks out of her shoulder. Done right, praying is a strenuous workout.
“Should I take Sirius home with me?” she asked. “Your attending doctor filled out paperwork saying that he was your therapy dog.”
“I wish that wasn’t true, but it is. So you better leave my therapy dog. I have some issues we’ll need to work through.”
“Dr. Padgett even stitched up Sirius, but we’re not supposed to tell anyone because he says it could get him fired.”
She raised a finger to her lips, and for some reason I found that funny. My amusement made her smile, and Lisbet took her finger from her lips and gently pressed it on my lips.
“Pleasant dreams,” she said, and then tiptoed out of the room.
I fell asleep almost immediately, but I didn’t have pleasant dreams.
CHAPTER 39
THE LAST RECORDING
It was late when Kurios arrived at the bunker. He controlled his urge to hurry down to see her. Delayed gratification, he knew, only made it better. He wanted maximum intensity. Besides, he needed to tend to business before pleasure.
He needed to make sure he was safe.
Kurios checked on the GPS tracker he’d planted on the snooper’s car. The detective had gone here and there, but his vehicle hadn’t moved for hours and was miles away.
There was nothing to worry about.
Still, he refrained from going to her. The anticipation needed to build, and the best thing for that was to put his workday behind him. It had started early and gone late. There had been a number of times during the day when she’d entered into his thoughts, but he hadn’t dared to monitor her. Too many people were about. But now, finally, he was alone.
Kurios tuned into his live feed. She
was against the wall, and her face was hidden from him. He zoomed the camera in, but couldn’t detect any rising or falling of her chest. She didn’t appear to be breathing.
He moved the camera’s lens, studying the concrete floor. There was blood pooled around her, lots of blood.
He took a sharp breath, growing hard. It was just as he’d hoped. She’d used the box cutter.
He went from the live feed to what had been recorded, rewinding the footage back to the point in time when he’d left her with the box cutter and exited the dungeon.
Then he began watching, savoring every second of what he saw.
She had moved the box cutter far away from her, a feeble attempt to keep temptation at bay, but as time passed she had gradually moved closer and closer to where she’d left it. Finally she’d picked up the blade and examined it.
He had seen some of the light go out of her eyes when he’d presented the dog’s ear, and then it had extinguished for good when he’d told her Bowser was dead. With her little baby gone, she’d lost the will to live.
Kurios watched as her last inner trial took place. He could see her thinking. She touched the blade, felt its sharpness. The promise of relief, only a few strokes away.
He paused the recording. He needed to tend to his own relief. And then he would return to the footage and watch her die.
CHAPTER 40
BLOWING IN THE WIND
I didn’t have a burning dream, but during the short time I slept, I did have a troubled dream.
And I woke up even more troubled.
The pounding in my head didn’t come only from a headache. In my dream I’d heard the music from earlier in the evening, with voices screaming for shelter.
It wasn’t only Merry Clayton and the Stones clamoring for shelter. I was sure I heard Heather Moreland in that chorus. It didn’t matter that I’d never heard her voice. I’d heard it in my dream, and even stranger, I was hearing it now. In my head she was calling for help.
I pressed a button for the floor nurse, and then began looking for my phone and my clothes. As far as I could determine, they weren’t in the room.
