by Steve Gannon
Kane
Steve Gannon
Steve Gannon
Kane
Prologue
He had been right to change the game. Of that he was certain. Still, he was increasingly troubled by the danger inherent in his recent actions, danger he’d precipitated by breaking rules that had long kept him safe. Nevertheless, this new game simply felt… right.
He stood motionless, slowing his breathing as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Gradually he began to discern dim shapes across the room: refrigerator, stove, dishes piled by the sink. In an adjacent alcove, a desk sat littered with papers, pencils, pens. Riding invisible currents, smells came to him as well. The aroma of stale pizza. A hint of fabric softener. A waft of perfume.
Her scent.
Outside, a breeze stirred in the night. Swaying with the wind, skeletal limbs of a nearby sycamore scratched at the roof. Upstairs, a sudden creak.
He froze, his senses straining.
Someone getting up, like last time?
Another creak.
He waited, palms slippery inside the latex gloves.
Silence.
He relaxed his grip on the pistol. Quietly, he pulled a dishtowel from a drying rack by the sink, stepped to the alcove, and lifted a telephone from the desktop. After punching in several random digits, he wrapped the towel around the receiver and set it back on the desk. Next he made his way to an electrical breaker panel behind the laundry room door.
Do it quickly, but don’t let them snap.
Covering the power panel with a wad of clothes from the laundry counter, he sequentially flipped off the toggles. Upon finishing, he heard a tinny voice sounding from the kitchen: “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again.” Then came a series of beeps, muffled by the towel but still alarmingly audible.
Careful not to make a sound, he quickly returned to the kitchen and found more dishtowels, further encasing the phone.
Better.
He stood in the dark, listening.
Nothing.
Satisfied no one had heard, he crept to a freestanding chopping block in the center of the room. After setting his knapsack on the maple surface, he reached for a rack of knives hanging by the stove. On his first visit he had noticed the black-handled utensils marked with the Zwilling J.A. Henckles imprint. Pulse quickening, he selected a razor-sharp utility knife with a four-inch blade. Next, with growing excitement, he reshouldered his knapsack and eased through the living room to the front of the house. There, a staircase led to the second floor.
Now?
Not yet. Give it a few more minutes.
Better safe than sorry.
He forced himself to wait on the bottom tread, an exquisite pressure building within. He pictured the woman as he had last seen her, long limbed and glistening with sweat, exercise tights clinging to her torso like a layer of paint.
Time to move.
In the rooms above, the family slept, unaware they were about to embark on a short but singular journey, one he was certain would prove the most intense of their otherwise insipid existence.
A moment later he started up the stairs.
1
Years ago my ex-partner, Arnie Mercer, was going through a particularly tough time in his personal life. Eventually he started seeing a therapist. Rather than talking with someone provided by the LAPD, Arnie chose instead to visit a private counselor in West Los Angeles-understandably not wanting his psychiatric treatment to show up in his police personnel jacket.
Like most cops who’ve run up against an “expert witness” shrink testifying in court to save some dirtbag defendant, I have little faith in the psychiatric profession. That said, the guy Arnie hooked up with struck me as even more of a quack than usual. I don’t know whether the counselor in question actually believed the stuff he was feeding Arnie, or whether it was simply an approach designed to help my partner sort out his problems.
Either way, Arnie and I talked about it. In a nutshell, here’s what Arnie’s therapist had to say: We’re all the center of our own little universe, and there’s no reality other than the one we each create for ourselves. Now, I could argue that one all day, and I did. If somebody hits you with a pipe, it raises a lump that’s real. You’re not making it up. On the other hand, Dr. X also contended-somewhat to the contrary, in my opinion-that being in control of your own little universe is merely an illusion. According to him, no one really controls anything in life that truly matters-and the sooner you accepted that, the better. I guess the lesson was to just sit back, don’t worry, and let things happen.
Naturally, I considered this a load of horseshit. I also realized that, following an exceptionally nasty divorce, Arnie was simply trying to get his life back on track as best he could. Being the sensitive person I am, I voiced my opinion to Arnie as gently as I could. “Arnie, that’s a load of horseshit,” I told him.
It’s been years since, but recently I’ve begun to have my doubts-at least about the “being in control” part. Not regarding little things, of course. As for the big things-sure, we all think we can control significant parts of our lives, the parts that matter. The important things.
Then, without warning, something ugly crawls out of nowhere and proves just how wrong we are.
Several years ago and a lot of tears in the past, my oldest son Tom died in a rock climbing accident. The cliche that advises parents not to outlive their children is true. Anyone who has lost a child knows it leaves a heart-wrenching emptiness inside you that can never be filled, a bottomless ache that may dull with time but will never be gone. Tommy’s death devastated me. I simply… broke. I crawled into a bottle and stayed drunk for days. Blinded by grief, I did and said things of which I’m ashamed-terrible, hurtful things I wish I could take back.
But of course I can’t.
Anyway, that morning as the sun crested a ridge to the east, I was sitting on a grassy slope in Forest Lawn Cemetery looking out over the city of Burbank and trying not to think about how things might have turned out if I had been a better father, a better man, when I noticed my wife Catheryn’s Volvo angling into a slot beside my beach-rusted Suburban in the parking lot below.
I had come out to visit Tom’s grave early that day, leaving Santa Monica before sunrise to avoid freeway traffic. Catheryn and I had decided on a temporary separation several weeks back, and I had been bunking in Arnie’s spare bedroom in Santa Monica ever since.
Curious, I watched as my three remaining children piled out of the Volvo-Travis, who had been driving, Allison, and Nate-followed by a relatively new four-legged addition to the Kane household, a two-year-old yellow Labrador retriever named Callie. No sign of Catheryn.
Not waiting for his siblings, Nate started up the slope, picking his way through rows of brass memorial plaques that curved across the hillside like contour lines on a map. Eager to explore, Callie bounded past Nate, enthusiastically sniffing her new surroundings.
“Nate, dogs aren’t allowed,” Allison called.
Ignoring her, Nate continued up the rise, his head lowered against the early-morning sun.
With a smile, I watched as my children approached. They hadn’t spotted me yet, and I felt a familiar surge of pride as I followed their progress up the slope. At nineteen, Travis was now in his second year of college at USC, and more and more I sensed he had matured in some indefinable manner. Tall and lanky, with long limbs and an artistic economy of movement not inherited from me, Travis had developed a hard layer of muscle over the past year. The construction job he’d held for the third consecutive summer had worked wonders, although I realized Trav would never have the strength and agility at sports that had come so naturally to Tommy.
Allison had matured lately as well. At seventeen, she’d finally emerged from a ga
wky phase of adolescence that she had considered her own private hell since turning fourteen. Her figure had softened with the emerging curves of womanhood, but strangely, the more she’d developed, the more she’d taken to hiding behind a constellation of baggy sweaters, broad-brimmed hats, and an endless collection of jackets, work shirts, and loose fitting jeans-like the odd mismatch she wore today. As she broke from shadow into sunlight, I noticed that her long reddish hair, a trait all the Kane kids had inherited from me, seemed to have recently darkened, deepening to a rich auburn more like her mother’s. Like Catheryn, Allison was going to be a beauty. Everyone saw it but her.
“Nate, wait,” Allison called again.
Nate glanced back and stubbornly picked up his pace, ensuring he’d be first to arrive. As the youngest at eleven, Nate had always fought to surpass his older siblings, cherishing any victory, however small. Furiously competitive, quick to both laughter and anger, his moods as transparent as glass, Nate-God help him-was the most like me.
“Aw, let him go,” said Travis. “We’ll see him at the top.”
“Whatever you say, genius-boy,” said Allison. “Figure out what you’re gonna tell Dad yet?”
A steady breeze was moving up the canyon, carrying the smell of cut grass and sounds from lower down. I’ve always had excellent hearing, and I could easily make out their conversation.
“About that,” said Travis. “Run it by me one more time. How did I get elected to be our spokesperson?”
“Simple. Now that Tommy’s gone, you’re Dad’s favorite, and-”
“There are no favorites in the Kane clan,” Travis interrupted. “Dad berates us all equally.”
“Nevertheless, you’re the favorite now, the new anointed one,” Allison persisted. “And besides, this was your idea.”
“Yeah, well, about that. I’ve been thinking-”
“Thinking? Trav, I thought you’d learned your lesson on that.”
“Sorry,” Travis laughed. “I’ll try to control myself in the future. But seriously, Ali. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“Look, I know you’re nervous,” Allison said firmly. “I am too. But we decided to do this, and we’re going to.”
By now Callie had raced ahead and was nearing the top of the rise. Spotting me, she stopped warily, glancing back to see how Nate and the others felt about the stranger she had discovered. Not sensing a warning from them, she proceeded cautiously. Finally catching my scent, she raced the final distance, mouth split in a joyful canine grin. When she arrived I knelt and scratched her ears. “Damn, girl, you act like you haven’t seen me in months,” I said softly. “Well, I’ve missed you, too.”
Out of breath, Nate finally gained the top of the hill. Allison and Travis were still some distance behind.
“Hey, squirt,” I said with a smile. “I’m happy to see you, but what are you guys doing here? Without me around to roust you rookies, I figured you’d be sacking out till eleven, then catching the last Mass.”
“Eleven?” Nate scoffed. “You and Mom never let us sleep past eight on weekends, especially on Sundays.”
“Damn right,” I agreed, giving Callie’s head one final rub before rising to my feet. “Nothing of consequence happens in bed, at least nothing we’ll be discussing till you’ve heard your Mom’s dissertation on the birds and the bees. And get your mitt out of your mouth, kid. If you don’t quit soon, you’ll be nibbling your fingers till you’re ninety.”
Recently Nate had begun biting his nails. When he ran out of nail, he would proceed to his cuticles. It was a bad habit, a tough one to break, but I knew he wanted to stop. He pulled his hand from his mouth in surprise, apparently unaware of what he’d been doing.
“Back to my question,” I said. “Why are you guys here?”
“Don’t buckle under Dad’s third degree,” counseled Allison as she and Travis finally arrived. “He has to read you your rights before beating a confession out of you, and you get to have a lawyer present anytime you want, if only to witness the carnage.”
“’Morning, Ali,” I said.
“And I’ll tell you something else, Nate,” Allison continued sagely. “You don’t need to sit through Mom’s explanation of the birds and the bees. I can sum it up in three little words: Bees are scum.”
“Thanks for that tiny bit of wisdom, Ali,” I said, sensing she was anxious and, as usual, trying to disguise her feelings with a blizzard of words. “Where’d you get it? TV?”
“Where else?” she answered, forcing a smile. I noticed that she had carried a small bouquet of daisies with her from the car. Not meeting my gaze, she started plucking petals from one of the blooms.
“Hi, Dad,” said Travis.
“Morning, Trav. It’s great to see you three, especially this early on a weekend. So what’s up?”
“Not much.”
Allison glanced at her older brother, obviously expecting him to continue. When he didn’t, she sighed impatiently and walked to a rectangular brass plaque set in the hillside several yards away. The marker still lay in shadow, but the inscription was clearly visible.
Thomas Daniel Kane
Beloved Son
Kneeling, Allison brushed a handful of lawn trimmings from Tommy’s plaque. Immersed in my own solitary thoughts, I watched as she placed her bouquet on the grave. Then, deciding to approach the mystery of my children’s presence from another angle, I asked, “Your mom know you’re here?”
“She thinks we’re at church,” Travis replied.
“You lied to her?”
“Well, she… she has her final rehearsal this afternoon before the Philharmonic goes on tour,” Travis stammered. “She’s going to be busy packing after that, and we-”
“What are you getting at?”
Travis shifted uncomfortably. “We wanted to see you alone.”
“Alone? How’d you know I’d be here?”
“It didn’t take a whole lot of deduction, Pop,” Allison interjected. “You come out here every weekend.”
“You’ll get your turn, Allison,” I said. “Right now I’m talking to your brother.”
“Interrogating him, you mean.”
I hesitated, realizing she had a point. “Okay,” I said more moderately. “You kids clearly have something on your minds, or you wouldn’t be here. Who’s gonna tell me what it is?”
“We came out here to talk with you, Dad,” Travis answered. “In private.”
“Why?”
“To tell you to stop being so mean to Mom and come home,” said Nate, anger darkening his face.
Allison and Travis stared in shock at their younger brother. In their eyes I could see the realization that Nate’s outburst had pushed them to a juncture from which there would be no turning back. “Is that what this is about?” I asked. “You don’t approve of the way I’m treating your poor defenseless mother?”
“Approve isn’t exactly the right verb,” Allison said hastily.
“And there’s more to it than that,” added Travis. He hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “Dad, we all think Mom deserves this trip. When she started performing full-time with the Philharmonic, you were against that, but things worked out. This will, too. And it’s not as though she has a choice. She’s the associate principal cellist. She has to go. Besides, it’s only a few weeks.”
“It’s six weeks.”
“Okay, six weeks. We’ll all pitch in while she’s gone.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, sir, I’m not. The point is that Mom’s going whether you approve or not. Why make things hard on her? Don’t you want her to be happy?”
With a surge of regret, I thought back to the argument I’d had with Catheryn the previous evening. I had stopped by the house in Malibu to pick up some clothes. Before I’d left, bitter words had been exchanged between us. Typical of arguments rooted in a soil of deeper disagreement, topics had germinated and developed and grown, one familiar hurt following another. “It’s as though you’v
e become a stranger,” Catheryn had said as our words spiraled past the point of no return, wounding us both like flying shards of glass. “I don’t even know what you’re thinking anymore. I don’t even know how you feel about me.” And to my shame, I had been unable to respond. Now, confronted by my children, I once more found myself at a loss for words.
At last I spoke. “Let me tell you kids something,” I began uncertainly. “Things aren’t always as simple as they seem, but I’m going to try to answer your question-after which this subject is closed. Of course I want your mom to be happy. I’m proud of what she’s doing, and of course I support her going on tour. That’s not the problem. The truth is, I can’t explain what’s going on. Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older. Maybe not. I still don’t, but I do know one thing: Even though two people love each other, sometimes things go wrong between them, things no one can fix.”
“So when are you coming home?” asked Nate.
“I’ll be back the day after tomorrow to take care of you and Ali while your mom’s in Europe.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know, Nate,” I said. “I don’t know the answer to that.”
“Mom said something about the possibility of your joining her for a few days in Europe,” Travis interjected hopefully.
“Maybe,” I said. “That was before last night. I’m going to see your mom again this evening and try to straighten things out. I want it to be a surprise, so don’t say anything, okay? As for joining her in Europe, that’s doubtful. If I do go, though, Grandma said she’d be available to stay with you. Christy said she would be around, too,” I added, referring to Tommy’s steady girlfriend before the accident. Christy lived nearby, and after Tom’s death she had remained a close family friend.
“When you see Mom next, try being nice for a change,” said Allison. “It’ll be easy. Just make believe you’re somebody else.”
“Thanks for the advice, Ali,” I said, trying not to smile and further encourage her insubordination. Then, changing gears, “Now, as Travis pointed out, Kate’s leaving soon. Trav, you may be living at USC during the week, but while she’s away I want you home every weekend to help. It’s a short drive across town.”
