by Alan Russell
“I’ve heard the rocking chair is a uniquely American invention,” I said. “Some European said only Americans would be crazy enough to invent a chair that requires you to work while you sit.”
“I suppose that’s right,” said Heather.
She looked preoccupied. Her chair moved up and down, but I don’t think she was aware of that. I took a bite of one of her cookies.
“Yum,” I said appreciatively. “These have to be homemade.”
“They are. And if you like them, you have to take all the rest with you. I’ve been doing all sorts of baking. It keeps me busy, but I don’t know what to do with all the extra food.”
“I’m sure Angie is willing to be your test kitchen.”
Heather offered up her first real smile of the afternoon. “She’s more than willing, but I try to make sure she has a healthy diet.”
We both sipped our lemonade. “I meant to have you over before now,” she said. “I wanted to thank you in person. I know I would be dead if it weren’t for you.”
I shook my head. “I was just the guy holding the leash. It was Angie who tracked you down. I just wish I’d let her do that sooner than I did.”
“I know how tirelessly you worked to find me. My friends tell me you were calling them night and day.”
“I was doing my job.”
She nodded, and her rocking chair slowed. “I had an ulterior motive for asking you over here. It wasn’t only that I wanted to thank you. I also wanted to ask your advice.”
“I don’t know if that’s my strong suit,” I said, “but ask away.”
Heather took a nervous breath. “You’ve been in the spotlight before. I was living in Los Angeles when you and Sirius captured the Weatherman. I remember how everyone was afraid you might die from your burns and wounds, and how every day there were reports on your condition.”
“The good thing about being in the burn unit,” I said, “is that I was spared from the media onslaught. You weren’t afforded that luxury.”
The media had been relentlessly pursuing Heather’s story. That partly explained her acting like a recluse.
“How long did it take you to get your life back?” she asked.
I shrugged. “After I was released from the hospital, I went around for about a year saying, ‘No comment.’”
“But your silence didn’t stop the media from reporting on you.”
“Not completely, but I wasn’t an active participant in their nonsense. The department had me do some talks for PR purposes, which the local stations used as fodder for slow news days.”
“Have you put all of that—craziness—behind you now?”
I thought about her question before admitting, “Probably not.”
Then I found myself unconsciously touching the keloid scarring on my face. Heather noticed what I was doing.
“I have scars of my own,” she said, “even though they’re not visible like yours.”
“I have those kinds of scars too, but I’m sure they’re nothing compared to yours. I hope you’re getting help.”
“I am, but every time I sit down and talk with my therapist, I think about the therapist who abducted me and raped me. It’s an irony that doesn’t escape me, or that I can’t seem to escape from.”
“Things get better.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
“There are days when I find myself shaking and feeling scared. I know Barron is behind bars, but it feels as if I can’t escape his evil.”
“It takes time. The grip of fear lessens.”
“You know this?”
“All too personally,” I said.
“I’m afraid of being targeted by another Barron.”
“You beat Barron,” I said. “You took him on after he’d raped you, and enslaved you, and done everything imaginable to break you down physically and mentally. And in the end, you still had the presence of mind to open your veins and soil yourself to make it appear you’d died, just to have the chance to live. And then, as weak as you were, you took him on. That’s why your story is so inspirational. You never gave up. And ultimately, do you know how you won? It was love that won out. The love that you gave Angie, and the love that she gave you, were not to be denied. The good guys actually won.”
“Did they?” asked Heather. “Sometimes I wonder. I thought I would never have to see Barron again, but now I’m told I’ll be facing him in the courtroom. And I’ll have to listen to his lies. Do you know he claims that all he was doing was fulfilling my sexual desires? He’s trying to suggest that I wanted my abduction to happen, and that it was a form of role-playing between us.”
I took a picture out of my coat pocket and handed it to Heather. She looked at the glossy of a cut-up, battered, and bleeding Dr. Alec Barron, and then at me.
“The jurors are going to see that picture,” I said. “The jurors are going to see lots of pictures. They’ll know it was never a game. That doesn’t mean Barron won’t stop telling his lies. He will. But for the rest of his life, and let’s hope that won’t be too long, whenever Barron looks in the mirror, he’ll think of you. You beat him, Heather. That was all you and Angie. Against all odds, you destroyed the monster. And he will always know you beat him, and that hard truth will haunt him day and night. That’s the story people will take away from this, because that’s the real story.”
Heather handed the picture back to me, but I had a sense she was now breathing a little easier and feeling less anxious.
“Why is it that you never agreed to a book deal,” she asked, “or a movie deal?”
“That wasn’t for me.”
“I’m not sure what I should do. There’s this part of me that wants to tell my story, and this part of me that just wants to go into hiding. I’ve been listening to offers, though. All these publishers and studios are after me, and they’re offering crazy money. I’d never have to work again.”
“What do you think you’re going to do?”
She shook her head. “I’ve always been a private person. It’s hard for me to imagine putting all my dirty underwear on display. And as you know, I’m talking both literally and figuratively. If I’m going to tell the story, I’m going to tell everything.”
Heather gave me a sad smile; I tried to give her a supportive one.
“Maybe it would be therapeutic if you told your story,” I said. “Everyone has demons. Writing about what happened might be a way of exorcising yours. Isn’t confession supposed to be good for the soul?”
“Do you practice what you preach?”
“Not to the extent I should. And maybe that’s why I haven’t healed as well as I should have. I am absolutely a case of do as I say, not as I do.”
“I loved my job, but now I’m not sure if I can go back.”
“Give it time.”
“Everyone says I have to act now or I’ll be yesterday’s news.”
“It’s not so bad being yesterday’s news, but that doesn’t mean it’s what you should want.”
“I’m leaning toward taking the money.”
“Do you have your tropical island picked out?”
“That wouldn’t make me happy. But opening a no-kill animal shelter would.”
I smiled. “Your friends told me you were a sucker for happily-ever-after stories.”
“That’s true. And I guess I’ve always been searching for mine. What do you think of the name Angie’s Rescues?”
CHAPTER 44
MONDAY, MONDAY
When I left Heather Moreland’s house, it was a little after four. I stopped at a Greek takeout and picked up some kebabs, falafel, and baklava. I also got some lamb shavings. Sirius made quick work of those in the car.
The decision left to me—the decision I’d been avoiding—was whether to take the direct route to Lisbet’s apartment or make a detour along the way. All day I’d tried to ignore the date on the calendar. No, that wasn’t quite true. All week I’d been trying to not think about the impending date
. Wasn’t my work done? Hadn’t I done my job and more? I couldn’t even carve out enough time in my schedule for physical therapy. Putting more on my plate wasn’t in my own self-interest.
I could surprise Lisbet by not being late for once. The two of us could drink an unhurried glass or two of wine. I would tell her how excited Heather Moreland got talking about her plans for Angie’s Rescues.
“Besides,” I told my partner, “I’m overdue for my pain medication, and I’m really feeling it. That’s another reason to drive straight to Lisbet’s.”
Sirius listened.
“The road to hell was paved with good intentions,” I said.
Sirius stared me down.
“Yes, it’s the second Monday of the month,” I said. “So what?”
My partner let the silence build.
“Yes, this is when the 187 Club meets. That has nothing to do with me.”
I wanted to believe that. I didn’t want to believe that.
“Monday, Monday,” I said, and took a deep, indecisive breath. “When you think of sixties music, it’s hard to do better than the Mamas & the Papas. And you know what they sang about Monday?”
Sirius was listening intently. That was good enough for me. “That’s right,” I said. “You can’t trust it.”
My partner made a little conversational grr sound.
“And let’s not forget the Carpenters and ‘Rainy Days and Mondays.’ Karen Carpenter only sang upbeat songs, but even she admitted that Mondays got her down.”
I wondered if Langston Walker had specifically chosen to meet on Monday because it’s a day most of us have the blues, and the purpose of the 187 Club was to deal with those blues. Or maybe it was just a date that worked on his calendar.
Sirius rested his muzzle on my shoulder, offering his touch of reassurance. “Let it be,” he was telling me, “let it be.” He said it even better than Paul McCartney sang it.
“Let it be,” I agreed.
Our course was decided.
As I neared the Jim Gilliam Recreation Center, I saw at least seventy-five people milling around the front of the building. That was almost enough to make me turn around. All the parking spaces were full, and I tried to tell myself that was another sign from the fates, but at that moment, faces in the crowd recognized me, and people began waving.
“They think we’re the cavalry,” I told Sirius.
I used a cop’s prerogative and parked illegally. And then with Sirius at my side, I began to slowly walk toward the gathering. I tried to not hobble, tried to stand up straight, and tried to not grimace from the pain of every step.
One person began clapping, and then another, and another, until everyone was cheering. To my ears the applause sounded overly loud, and I could feel myself flushing. Sirius wagged his tail, enjoying the moment.
The overflow crowd opened up a path for the two of us, guiding me to take a place at the top of the steps. It was clear too many club members had shown up to be accommodated in the community meeting room, and everyone had been milling around the front until now. They’d been waiting, even if they weren’t sure for what.
I looked down at the expectant eyes, and then took a deep breath while trying to collect my thoughts. Sirius barked. I wasn’t sure whether he saw a squirrel, or whether he was calling the meeting to order.
“I’m no Langston Walker,” I said. “His shoes are too big for anyone to fill. But the reason that all of us are here is that although Langston is no longer with us, we can’t let his dream die.”
Heads in the crowd nodded; faces encouraged me to go on.
“At last month’s meeting, Detective Walker said that everyone came to this monthly meeting for different reasons. Tonight, though, we are all here for Langston.”
I told them how the case against his murderer was proceeding. Everyone already knew what James Rhodes had done, but heads still shook, and faces expressed shock and bewilderment. I spoke to that pain. I’m not much of a public speaker, but words started pouring out of me. Where they came from I’m not sure. My words assumed a kind of poetry that I was sure I did not possess. I think Langston Walker spoke through me, offering one last address.
“We have all been betrayed by a murderous Judas,” I said, “but we can’t let him tear down what we have built. This club was formed so that it might lift its membership up. All of you share a bond. All of you are members of a club that claims a terrible price and unimaginable dues. No one wants to join this club, and yet we must retain this refuge for those in despair. We cannot let this light in the darkness be extinguished.”
The clapping started up again. It wasn’t for me; it was for the survivors of the 187 Club.
I had found my ghost, and it had found me.
“Let us bow our heads now,” I said, “and offer up a moment of silence to remember Langston.”
I lowered my head and did my remembering of Langston, and then directed a thought his way: “You better help me, because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
Then I lifted my head, and waited a few more moments for everyone else to raise their heads.
“Now it’s your turn,” I said. “I want to hear Langston stories and memories that make us laugh and cry. Who is going to start us off?”
A tentative hand went up. I smiled and acknowledged the woman behind the hand, and she began to talk.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I first envisioned the Gideon and Sirius novels, my good friend and longtime agent, Cynthia Manson, encouraged me in the writing of them. And then Cynthia asked me to take a chance on a new publisher. Andy Bartlett of Thomas & Mercer bought Burning Man along with some titles from my backlist; I’ll always be grateful to him.
Once again I have to thank Caitlin Alexander. She is a wonderful editor, and a wonderful person.
And speaking of editors, Gracie Doyle has done a great job of transitioning into her new position. I have never heard anyone say a bad word about Gracie. In the publishing business, that should qualify her for sainthood.
My kudos go out to all of those at Thomas & Mercer who have allowed me to flourish as a writer. Thank you, one and all.
I would also like to thank Jean Jenkins, a friend of mine who happens to be a fine editor and rewrite consultant, for sending me an article about the unfortunate death of a cop on the job and the reaction of his loyal K-9 partner. The loyalty that dogs often exhibit is astonishing.
My thanks also go out to Dr. Sue Spray for her veterinary insights on display in this novel (any mistakes are mine and not hers!). “Dr. Sue,” as she is known to all her two- and four-legged friends, offers her wonderful mobile veterinary service (PetDoc2U) in the North County of San Diego. Our three dogs give their beloved vet three enthusiastic paws-up.
I would also like to offer a tip of the hat to retired police Sergeant Brian Kutney. Brian and his wife, Janee, have been kind enough to send pictures and tell stories of their wonderful K-9 charge, Aja, a beautiful female German shepherd police dog. And thanks again to Bob Connely, who is always available to answer my dog-training questions.
Finally, I’d like to thank my readers. It’s great hearing from you. Please keep your notes and those cop–K-9 articles and stories coming. You can reach me at my website, www.alanrussell.net, through my email at [email protected], or by “liking” me on Facebook at Alan Russell Mystery Author.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2012 Stathis Orphanos
Critical acclaim has greeted bestselling author Alan Russell’s novels from coast to coast. Publishers Weekly calls him “one of the best writers in the mystery field today.” The New York Times says, “He has a gift for dialogue,” while the Los Angeles Times calls him “a crime fiction rara avis.” Russell’s novels have ranged from whodunits to comedic capers to suspense, and his works have been nominated for most of the major awards in crime fiction. He has been awarded a Lefty, a Critics’ Choice Award, and the Odin Award. A California native, Russell is a former collegiate basketball player who
these days plays under the rim. The proud father of three children, he is also an avid gardener and cook, and fortunately is blessed with a spouse who doesn’t mind weeding or washing dishes.
