“Hey,” he said, pushing the bike up to the car window once he felt confident, “are you the game man? I’m Ricky.”
The man’s face turned white. He stared at Josh, a funny milky look in his eyes like he’d been sleeping. “You’re Ricky?”
“Yeah,” he said, “didn’t you hear me? I’m Ricky.”
“You’re not twelve,” the man said indignantly, his face turning a bright red. This was a mature boy, with developed musculature. He was past puberty. It was obvious.
“Yeah. I am,” Josh insisted. “I’m just big for my age. Aren’t we going to your place? You told me you’d give me those games.”
The man was silent, staring out the window. Josh didn’t know what was wrong with him. He seemed to be in another world. He’d asked him to come here and now he was acting like he had seen a ghost or something. Finally the man turned to him. “Get in the car,” he barked.
“What about my bike, man?”
They both turned back to the convenience store at the same time. There was a bike rack there and Ricky had a lock. Josh walked over and chained it to the rack and got in the passenger side of the Lexus. The man pulled out into the street, but he didn’t speak. He acted disappointed.
“What’s wrong?” Josh asked. “Don’t you like me or something? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, no,” he said suddenly, as if his mood had changed. He let his hand roam across the seat and touched Josh’s hand. “I think you’re a fine young boy. You just look a lot older than I expected.”
Josh remembered Lara making him tell the man he was only twelve. He had no idea why. It didn’t make sense. He studied the man’s face. Josh inhaled and then let it out, allowed his body to sink deeper into the leather seat. He didn’t look like a killer. But he did look spooky. It was just something about him. He was dressed nice, in a sports jacket and knit shirt. He smelled of strong cologne. His hair was neatly styled, but he still had a strange look. He seemed nervous, tense. Josh thought he saw his body trembling and thought perhaps he was excited instead of tense—terribly excited. And he was breathing heavily, his nose expanding and contracting, his tongue coming out almost like Ricky’s dog. If the man had a tail, Josh thought, it would probably be wagging.
“Where do you live?” Josh asked as the man entered the freeway and headed north, back toward Los Angeles. Suddenly Josh felt the fear climb from his stomach to his throat. What if he took him somewhere far away, somewhere where there was no phone and he couldn’t call for help?
The guy could kill him.
“Look,” he said, his voice cracking no matter how he tried to steady it, “I made a mistake. I do have to be home tonight. I should be home by eight o’clock or my mom will go crazy and start looking for me. She might even call the police.”
“Fine,” the man said without looking at Josh. His hands were tight on the steering wheel.
Josh couldn’t see his eyes for his dark glasses. They rode in silence, the only noise inside the Lexus the man’s raspy breathing.
“Can I call you Rick?” the man finally said. “You seem more like a Rick to me than a Ricky.”
“Yeah,” Josh said. “You can call me anything you want.” When the man turned his head, Josh forced a smile.
Emmet was panting, struggling to keep the van on the road. Thank God, the traffic was light, for he was headed away from Los Angeles. Even when he had driven, he had always traveled slowly and used the side streets. Now he was flying down the freeway, pushing the hand control for the speedometer and holding it down all the way. He saw the exit for San Clemente and steered the van down the ramp. Then he saw the 7-Eleven. His eyes started searching for Josh. A car was pulling out of the parking lot. Emmet stared at it. His heart leapt in his throat. He saw Josh in the passenger seat, a man at the wheel. He tried to turn the van around and ended up with the rear wheels on the curb.
He was going to lose them.
Chapter 26
Although it wasn’t that far from Santa Ana to Anaheim Hills, they hit rush-hour traffic on the 405 freeway. Rickerson tried to contact the chief and advise them that they were on the way, but he was out of radio range. “Let’s try the sheriff’s frequency,” he said, punching buttons on the police radio. “The chief usually monitors their radio when he leaves the city just in case something heavy goes down and he’s sitting right on top of it. They can relay a message to him. Let him know we’re running late.”
They listened to the radio traffic. It was fast and furious. Before Rickerson could try to transmit, he had to wait his turn. They were dispatching ambulances and paramedics. “They’ve got something going on,” he told Lara. “Probably a big accident with bodies all over the road. Glad I’m not working traffic.”
Lara heard something she recognized. She sat up straight in the seat and strained to make out exactly what they were saying. The voices were crackling with static. “Ted,” she said quickly, “did you hear the address they just mentioned, where they’re sending all the emergency vehicles?”
“Nan,” he said, “I wasn’t listening. Why?”
“I thought they said Fairmont—820 Fairmont. Can you check? It’s important.” She held her breath. If she wasn’t mistaken, 820 Fairmont was Victor Adams’s address. She prayed she was mistaken.
Finally Rickerson found a lull in the air traffic and seized the mike. “Station three, this is unit 654, San Clemente. Repeat the location you are responding to. We’re in the area.”
“Eight-twenty Fairmont,” the dispatcher said. “We have a triple 187 working. Adult male and two small children. One may be a suicide.” Before the words were even out of her mouth, she was dispatching a crime-scene unit and other units to direct traffic, seal off the area.
“Oh, my God,” Lara exclaimed. She was ashen and beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. “That’s Victor Adams’s address. He has two children. Please, Ted, find out what happened. They said a triple homicide…possible suicide. Jesus, he must have killed himself and the children. He just left my courtroom. I knew something terrible was going to happen. I just knew it.” An hour ago, the precious little girls had been alive.
Rickerson got the dispatcher on the air and asked her to scramble the transmission. He knew she couldn’t advise names of victims over the air. He flipped the button on his console and activated his own scrambler. Then they waited until the woman had a free moment of air time.
“San Clemente 654,” the dispatcher said. “We have a Victor Adams at that location and his two daughters. All three are DOA. Nothing further at this time. Units are at the scene.”
While tears streamed down Lara’s cheeks, Rickerson continued. “Cause of death?”
“Shotgun wounds. Neighbor called it in. Occurred about ten minutes ago.”
Lara couldn’t believe it. She felt sick to her stomach, about to throw up on the floorboard of the car. Sensing something horrid hanging like a dark cloud over the courtroom, she’d had a terrible feeling when she’d looked at Adams sitting there today. He was at the end of his rope, completely destroyed. And the system had done it. They were the actual murderers. They had taken his life and ripped it apart, a virtual annihilation. Those two darling girls, dead, at their own father’s hands. Lara looked out the window at the string of cars ahead, the tacky billboards, the debris by the road, the thick layers of smog hanging on the horizon. It was still light outside, only about seven-thirty, but all she saw was blackness and blood red death. She saw wasted dreams: two beautiful little girls who would never wear makeup, never go to a high school dance, never get married. She saw them running down the aisles, so full of life, giggling and laughing.
“Shit happens,” Rickerson said, taking the next off ramp and speeding down the surface streets. He reached his hand across the seat and clasped Lara’s. “This was the guy on trial, right?”
“Right,” she said, sniffing, reaching into her purse for a Kleenex. “Why didn’t Evergreen shoot himself instead of Victor Adams? And why did he have to kill the child
ren? Good Lord.”
“Never works out that way, doll. The bad ones live to be a hundred and the good ones die.”
A few minutes later, they pulled up alongside the units and Rickerson leaned out the window. The chief walked over. The other officers remained in the car.
“Let’s go,” Rickerson said to the chief. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Lara was sitting quietly beside him. Evergreen didn’t really matter to her right now. All she could think about was Victor Adams and his little girls.
The man in the Lexus pulled into a parking lot. Josh leaned forward in the seat and tried to figure out where they were. From what he could tell, they were somewhere in Irvine and the building looked like an apartment complex. They weren’t far from the freeway. Most of the buildings around there were skyscrapers housing technical companies and medical offices.
The man glanced at Josh lovingly and filled his lungs with the essence and odor of youth. The boy had been perspiring. He could catch the delicious scent floating by his nostrils. The boy might be older than he thought, but he didn’t yet manufacture foul body odor.
It was warm and clean and fresh, this scent. If he took his tongue and pressed it to his flesh, it would be slightly salty.
This young man was only beginning his life, he thought. He envied him. Sometimes he believed his desires were actually a longing to return to his youth. By loving these young men he was traveling back in time, capturing some of their youth for himself. It was almost like a mystical experience, as if their life force, their vitality, became his own. When he was with them, he felt young again. He felt alive.
He pulled to the back of the complex and parked in his assigned spot. “Come on,” he told the boy. “I have a wonderful surprise for you.”
“What’s wrong with your leg?” Josh asked, watching the man hobble across the parking lot. “Did you hurt it or something?”
“No,” the man said, glancing back over his shoulder at Josh. “I have a spinal deformity.”
“Oh, yeah?” Josh said, genuinely sympathetic. “I have a friend who has ALS. Do you know what that is?”
“Lou Gehrig’s disease,” the man tossed out without a second thought, trying to find the right key on his key ring. “That’s unfortunate. He’s not a young boy like you, is he? That disease usually strikes when a person is older.”
“No,” Josh said. “He’s older, but he’s still my friend.”
The man opened the door to the apartment and hit the light switch. The room came alive. He’d recently purchased a fortune in computer equipment, had it installed right in the apartment. No one knew about this place. He’d paid a year’s rent in advance.
He was seeing a psychiatrist. He was even taking medication. But it only made him sleepy. It didn’t take away his desire to be with young men. Nothing would take that away.
He knew that. He’d fought this alone for years. Finally he had learned to accept it. At first he’d thought he was homosexual and had been filled with self-loathing. Then he realized this was something totally different. He had no desire to have sex with men. He only desired sex with young boys—boys so tender and fresh that they were untainted by life. Boys who looked up to him, admired him.
Besides, he didn’t hurt these young men. He loved them. To him, it was real—the love. He became their friend and confidant; he taught them about life. Most of the boys he had been involved with over the years had no father in the home. He was their role model. He gave them gifts, took them on wonderful outings, counseled them about their future. And then, at last, he pleased them. That’s where his own pleasure was derived: from giving them pleasure, seeing that expression of bliss on their bright young faces for the very first time.
Sometimes he didn’t even need the sex. Just being around these young men was enough to give him real pleasure. Their very presence chased the demons away—his ever present fear of death, his fears of inadequacy.
He couldn’t stop. It was a compulsion, an addiction. The only way he could stop was to kill himself, and he didn’t have the courage. In the past he had been consumed with guilt, even attempted to take his own life on several occasions. Some nights he prayed that someone would kill him, end it for him, do what he couldn’t find the strength to do.
He had reconciled himself that he would never be cured. For the illness he suffered, there was no such thing as a cure.
Most of the equipment was on and lights were flickering on the consoles. Quickly he walked through the room turning on the television monitors. “Well,” he said, putting his hands together in pleasure, “what do you think?”
For a moment Josh didn’t speak. He’d never seen a room like this one except on television, or in war movies when they showed command posts. “Wow,” he said, truly awed, “it’s great, man.”
On every monitor was a different channel. One whole wall was computer equipment. “My friend Emmet would go crazy in a place like this.” The man was smiling. Josh turned around and looked at him.
The man placed his hand over his mouth and giggled. When he removed it, he said, “I knew you would love it. But you haven’t seen the best.”
Strolling across the room, looking back over his shoulder at Josh, he suddenly pulled a sheet off a large object. “Voilà,” he said with a little wave of his hand. “Meet Henry.”
Josh couldn’t believe it. The man had a real little robot. While he was crossing the room, the man did something behind the robot’s back and it sprang to life, lights blinking on top of its head, its eyes a funny shade of red.
“My name is Henry,” the robot said. “How may I serve you?”
“This is so cool,” Josh exclaimed. “My God, this is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. How much does something like this cost? What can it do? Where did you get it?”
“I got it at the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas last year,” the man told him. “It was a gimmick. You know, they built it to attract people to their booth. I convinced them to sell it to me.”
Josh was so impressed with the whole setup that he couldn’t believe it. Maybe they were all wrong about this guy, and he was just a high-tech nut or something. He seemed nice enough. He had a problem walking. It reminded him of Emmet. Sometimes people didn’t understand people with problems. He knew that now.
But the hand-holding stuff in the car had to go, he told himself. That was weird.
The robot started walking across the floor like a giant vacuum cleaner. “Would you like a cold drink or something?” the man said. “Or maybe a nice cold beer? I also have wine coolers.”
“Yeah,” Josh said. “I’ll take a wine cooler.” He’d always wanted to try one of those things. They were real popular with all the kids in high school.
The man disappeared and the robot scooted across the floor behind him. A few minutes later, the robot appeared in the door with the wine cooler on a little tray. “Your drink,” it said in that strange computerized voice.
Josh laughed and picked up the wine cooler. His throat was parched from the long ride from Ricky’s to downtown San Clemente. It tasted like Kool-Aid. He drank it in almost one gulp. When the man came back into the room, he was wearing a velvet smoking jacket and a little pair of silk shorts. Josh stifled a laugh. He looked so funny. Although his upper body was almost chunky, his legs were real skinny and white.
The man saw the empty bottle set on one of the tables and immediately picked it up, checking to make certain it had not left a ring. “Young men should always put their glasses on coasters. See,” he said, holding up a coaster, “there was one right here. Do you want another?”
“Yeah, sure,” Josh said. He was still thirsty. Either that or his throat was dry from nerves. “Do you have Smart Ball?” he asked. “You said you did. I promised my friend.”
“Certainly,” the man said. “All the games are right in that box by the computer. Go ahead, start playing and I’ll give you some pointers. Then when you leave, you can take the games.”
Jos
h loaded up the computer and the game began. The man leaned over close to him and told him how to raise his score. Josh was enthralled. Wait until Ricky sees this, he thought. The game finished, Josh looked at his score. “I can’t believe it,” he told the man. “Wait, I want to enter my name. I bet my score’s right up at the top.”
“I can teach you a lot of things, Rick,” the man said. He pushed his chair even closer to Josh and leaned toward him. He put his hand on his thigh. Josh didn’t even notice it.
“Can I play again? I bet the next time my score will be even better.”
“I’ll get you another wine cooler,” the man said.
The man returned and handed Josh the wine cooler, his fingers making contact with Josh’s and a funny, silly look in his eyes, as though he had a secret and was about to tell. “Want to see that movie?” he said, arching his thin eyebrows.
Josh would have preferred just to play the games, but he remembered why he had come to begin with. “I guess,” he said. The man headed off toward the back of the apartment and Josh followed him. He stopped in the door to a bedroom. It was dark in there. He wasn’t going in there in the dark with this guy. No way.
Josh remained in the doorway as the man fiddled with the VCR and the movie came on the screen. Then the man walked over to Josh and Josh stepped aside, letting him pass. “I have some things to take care of right now, so you just enjoy the movie.” He walked down the hall into another section of the apartment.
Josh flopped down on the bed and began watching the movie, tossing the new wine cooler down his throat in almost one gulp.
Stopping in the living room, the man started to turn the computer off. He hated to waste electricity. That was one of his good points. He’d always been frugal. Then he saw it. The boy’s name was flashing on the screen next to the name of the game distributor.
“Josh,” he said, repeating the name, panic setting in.
Interest of Justice Page 39
