by J. R. Rain
“Sexually?”
“No. Not me. I wouldn’t let him. I fought him. So he settled on beating the shit out of me. Broke my arm twice. In the same fucking place. Loves to grab it and shake until something snaps.”
“Were your sisters sexually abused?”
“I think so, and I’m pretty sure little Alyssa is getting the worst of it now, especially now that she’s alone with him.”
“Has your mother ever tried to leave?”
“No. He tells her he will kill her and her daughters. Classic shit. She’s terrified of him.”
“Has anyone ever gone to the police? Have any teachers ever noticed the bruises, questioned your broken arms?”
“The answer is no. Father is an assemblyman for the county. He can have anyone’s job. He knows it and they know it. Our plight has been ignored.”
“Plight,” I said, grinning at her. “You must be a writer.”
“Someday soon I hope to even make money at it.”
“Would you like your father to stop the abuse?”
“Of course. Stupid fucking question.” She leaned forward, hands flat in the grass. Not surprisingly, her nails were unpainted. “Are you going to stop him?”
I shrugged. “I could give a shit if he’s an assemblyman. I work for myself. I could make most men on this earth bend to my will.”
She actually laughed and clapped, and that pretty much made my day. She said, “That’s such a funny way to describe that you are going to royally kick his ass.”
“Royally.”
“He’s a big guy,” she said. “But you’re bigger.”
“I’m bigger than most. And if I happen to break his arm in the process?”
Her gaze hardened. “Tell him it was from me.”
A Frisbee landed next to us. I flicked it back to an embarrassed young lady. She caught it neatly with one hand and dashed off.
“One more thing,” I said. “Do you know why Amanda quit her school band?”
“Because the band director was a creep.”
“How do you know?”
“He made a pass at her,” she said.
“What did she do about it?”
“Told him to leave her alone.”
“I assume he didn’t.”
“No.”
“And then she quit?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did she often confide in you?” I asked.
She looked away. “Yeah, we were close.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“So am I.”
I gave her one of my cards, and she looked at it.
“Nice picture, Mr. Knighthorse,” she said.
“I know.”
33.
It was early morning and the crowd in McDonald’s consisted mostly of old men in tan shorts, white tee shirts and running shoes. Most didn’t look like they did much running.
I was eating a Big Breakfast with Jack at the back of the restaurant. He was sipping his lukewarm black coffee and looking very ungodlike in his bum outfit. Then again, according to him, this is how I expected him to look.
“So who’s running the universe if you’re down here with me?”
“I can be in many places.”
“Convenient,” I said. “Must make waiting in line for Zeppelin tickets a breeze.”
“And makes doing chores a snap.”
“Was that a joke?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“God jokes?”
“Who do you think invented humor?”
“The devil?” I asked.
“There is no devil, you know that.”
“I know that because you told me there’s no devil. I’m still not convinced.”
The man in front of me shrugged and sipped his coffee. I’ve noticed that Jack often didn’t care if I believed him or not. I found that interesting and a little disconcerting.
“Prove to me you’re God.”
“Prove I’m not.”
“Touche,” I said. “What’s the square root of one million?”
“Do you know?”
“No,” I said. “But I will later.”
“Then ask me later.”
“Fine,” I said. “Perform a miracle. A real miracle.”
“Like turning coffee into wine?”
“Yes. That. Or beer. Turn it into ice cold beer and let me drink it.”
“You sound like an alcoholic, Jim.”
“You would know.”
“Drinking is not good for your body. In fact, it’s very hard on your body.”
“Let’s not go down that road.”
“Okay,” he said. “What road would you like to go down?”
“I want a miracle. I want proof that I’m talking to God.”
“One man’s miracle is another man’s reality.”
“Oh, screw that,” I said. “Turn something into something else, and quit giving me shit.”
“And if I performed a miracle for you, that would finally satisfy your curiosity?”
“Yes.”
“No it wouldn’t. You would ask for another miracle, and then another. Always doubting.”
“You’re not going to perform a miracle, are you?”
“No. That is, not in the way that you mean.”
“But you perform other miracles?”
“Every day. Every second.”
“But if you performed a miracle for me now, then I would no longer have to believe, or have to have faith.”
“This is true.”
“I think faith is overrated. Turn something into something else and I will be your biggest follower, I promise.”
“I don’t want a follower. I just want you to listen, to think for yourself and to lead the best life you can. Ultimately, to define who you are and to live by those convictions.”
“And if you performed a miracle for me…”
“Then you will no longer make your own choices.”
“I would blindly do whatever you say,” I said.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“But you are here now, claiming to be God.”
“Like I said, one man’s miracle-”
“Is another man’s reality,” I finished.
We were silent some more. I looked in his half-empty cup. It was still coffee.
Jack closed his eyes, seemed to have fallen asleep, but he did this often, going to wherever God goes.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Very.”
“I’m going to hurt a man,” I said.
“Do what you must.”
“Really?”
“I do not define for you what is right or wrong.”
“Au contraire,” I said. “There’s a whole book out there that defines exactly what we should do.”
“Was that French?” he asked.
“Oh shut up,” I said. “Wait, did I just tell God to shut up?”
“Yes. Would you like for me to shut up?”
“No.”
“Remember, I will not tell you how to lead your life, nor will I tell you what decisions to make, or who or what defines you. These are your choices. Your gifts. The book or books of which you refer, were often inspired by me, but only the parts about love.”
“Love?”
“As in do all things with love.”
“All things?”
“Yes,” he said. “This concept alone would change much of the structure of your planet.”
“There are those who can’t love, or choose not to love.”
“There are those,” said Jack, “who are an unfortunate byproduct of your current state of non-loving.”
“You do realize we are in a McDonald’s?”
“Yes.”
“Am I going crazy?” I asked.
“That is for you to decide.”
“So you really do not care if I hurt another human being?”
“Do you derive pleasure from hurting others, Jim?”
“No. I will be hurting another to pro
tect many more.”
“Are you living and acting and behaving within your own moral standards?”
“Yes.”
“Is this what defines who you are?”
“Yes.”
“And so you are being true to yourself?”
“I guess so, yes.”
“I can find no fault in that.”
“So you approve?” I asked.
“I approve of defining who you are, Jim. There is a difference. And there are many, many people out there who do not have a strict moral code, such as your own.”
“So any moral code would work?”
“Any true moral code, Jim,” said Jack. “Any true code.”
34.
Sanchez and I waited in Sanchez’s unmarked police vehicle in a red zone across the street from the offices of Assemblyman Richard Peterson.
“His name has a nice ring to it,” said Sanchez.
We were in the city of Brea, in a shopping zone that called itself Downtown Brea. The stores were all new, and there was not one but two movie theaters. The apartments above the stores were advertised as artists’ lofts. Once, long ago, I wanted to be an artist, until I realized I wasn’t good enough and didn’t have enough patience.
“There are two ice cream shops,” said Sanchez. “I wonder why.”
“They are across the street from each other,” I said. “Downtown Brea is all about convenience.”
“If you say so.”
“There’s our man.”
It was past 6:30 p.m. and Richard Peterson was just leaving the office. He was leaving with a rather pretty blond in a short red dress. She split one way, walking to a nearby restaurant bar, and blew him a little kiss.
“Maybe she’s the secretary,” I said.
“Bet she takes great dictation.”
Peterson crossed the street purposefully, and headed to the parking structure to our right. We watched him ascend the stairs.
“Takes the stairs. Keeps in shape,” said Sanchez. “You think you can handle him?”
“As long as he doesn’t take them two at a time.”
We waited at the mouth of the structure’s exit, and sure enough a black Escalade with Peterson at the helm came tearing through the structure, heedless of babies or speed bumps.
“I could give him a ticket for reckless driving,” said Sanchez.
“For now just follow him.”
Sanchez did, pulling in behind him. Peterson drove like a man drunk or on drugs, weaving carelessly in and out of traffic.
“At least he uses his blinker,” I said.
“Considerate. Where do you want this to go down?”
We were on a street called Brea Blvd. The street was wide and quiet.
“This is good,” I said.
Sanchez, hidden behind his cop glasses, reached under his seat and pulled out a flashing light with a magnetized bottom. He put it on top of his vehicle. I saw Peterson jerk his head up and look in the rearview mirror a couple of times. Finally he yanked the Escalade off to the side of the road. Sanchez pulled in behind him.
I said, “You don’t have to do this. He’s my problem. You could get into a lot of trouble.”
“Justice is justice, Knighthorse. Sometimes street justice can be more effective.”
“And less paperwork.”
“And less paperwork,” said Sanchez. “Wait here.”
35.
I watched from the passenger seat. Sanchez spoke with Peterson through the open window. A moment later I heard a lot of shouting, saw a lot of gesticulating, then the Escalade door burst open and Peterson came charging out. He waggled a finger in Sanchez’s face. From here, his finger looked like a worm on a hook.
Sanchez said something and Peterson reluctantly turned and put both hands on the SUV’s hood.
I watched intently.
Sanchez was an old pro. He kicked Peterson’s feet apart and patted him down. Peterson said something over his shoulder and Sanchez pushed him hard against the fender. I heard the thump from here. Peterson’s sunglasses fell from his face.
Sanchez removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt, twisted Peterson’s arm back, then cuffed the assemblyman’s wrist. The whole cuffing process took less than three seconds, faster than Peterson could react. Once he realized what had happened, he swung around violently. Sanchez stepped back, removed his gun and pointed it at Peterson’s chest.
Peterson backed off, breathing hard. Sanchez walked him back to the vehicle.
And just like that we kidnapped Mr. Richard Peterson, Orange County Assemblyman, wife beater and child molester.
***
He shoved Peterson in the backseat. I took off my shades and turned around.
“Hi, Dick,” I said. “Dick is an acceptable variant of Richard, am I correct?”
Recognition dawned on Peterson’s red and sweaty face. His eyes narrowed and his pupils shrank. “It’s you. The detective. What the fuck is going on?”
I turned to Sanchez. “Do you want me to quiet him up for the ride out?”
“Go ahead, I’m tired of hearing him already.”
I stepped out of the front seat, opened the back door, and punched Peterson as hard as I could. Even from my awkward angle, the blow was still a good one and caught him sharply across the temple, snapping his head around.
Dazed, he didn’t go unconscious, but it sure shut him up.
I turned and headed toward the Escalade.
“Follow me,” I said to Sanchez.
***
I followed a street called Carbon Canyon through the city of Brea. Soon the new homes and the massive state park disappeared and we were on a winding road. The Escalade drove like a dream. Shame what was going to happen to it.
I found a dirt turn-off and hung a right. In my rearview mirror, Sanchez followed me closely, although he didn’t use his turn blinker. Damn cops. Above the law. First kidnapping, and now this.
We were now following a small creek, and when we reached a point where the creek dropped off twenty feet below down a dirt embankment, I stopped the Cadillac.
Sanchez pulled up behind me with Peterson in the backseat. I put the Escalade in neutral, and stepped outside. With Sanchez’s help, we pushed the Cadillac down the dirt embankment. It ricocheted nicely off two trees, careened off a pile of boulders, and then splashed down in the middle of the creek, hissing and steaming.
The vehicle was totaled.
“Damn shame,” said Sanchez.
“Yep.”
36.
“Let him go,” I said to Sanchez.
Sanchez uncuffed Peterson. The assemblyman was still woozy from the blow to the head. His hair was ruffled and his face was red, and it looked like he might have been missing a button on his shirt. He looked from me to Sanchez, and then at his surroundings. Dawning seemed to come over him as he realized he was not in a good situation. When he spoke, there was real fear in his voice, along with much nastiness.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked.
“You are Richard Peterson, county assemblyman and respected citizen. You are also a wife beater and a child abuser who rapes his own children. Is there anything I missed?”
He looked at me briefly, then lumbered over to the creek and looked down at his Escalade. “You can’t prove any of it,” he said, still looking down. He might have considered bolting if he wasn’t still dazed.
“I’m not here to prove anything.”
“So what’s going on? You want money to keep everything quiet?”
Sanchez laughed and leaned a hip against the fender of his vehicle.
“No,” I said. “You have been tried and found guilty, Mr. Peterson. Now comes the punishment phase. I will allow you to defend yourself.”
“It’s two against one, hardly fair.”
“My compatriot is here for entertainment purposes only.”
“Compatriot?” said Sanchez.
“Yeah.”
Peterson sized me up, eyes darting quickly. Sweat w
as on his brow, and spreading quickly under his pits.
“You’re bigger than me.”
“I’m bigger than most.”
“Not me,” said Sanchez.
“We’re even,” I said to Sanchez. “Besides, we’ve already had this argument before, which is why I said most.”
I turned back to Peterson. He backed up. If he bolted and was fast enough I could be in trouble with my gimp leg. Sanchez pulled out his gun and pointed it at Peterson again.
“No running,” said Sanchez.
“You didn’t give your children a chance to run, did you?” I asked. “When you beat them or forced yourself on them.”
“What the fuck is going on?”
“I am here for two things: first, to convince you of the error of your ways, and second to convince you to, um, give up the error of your ways.”
“Poetic,” said Sanchez.
“Shut up, I’m making this up as I go.”
“I can tell,” said Sanchez.
I said to Peterson, “I am going to kick the royal shit out of you. You are going to have a beating unlike anything you’ve ever had in your life. You will tell the authorities you suffered your injuries in a car accident, resulting from your desire to go sightseeing. You will stick to this story or a letter written by your daughter Annette detailing your sexual tendencies toward your own children will be mailed instantly to all the local papers. Do you understand?”
He stared at me blankly, sweating. He looked like he needed a drink of water.
“And if you ever so much as lay a finger on your wife or children again, your next car accident will be your last. Are we clear?”
“Lesson learned, I swear. I mean, hell, you’ve scared the shit out of me. I’m practically peeing my pants here.”
“Practically,” I said to Sanchez. “Then I’m not doing my job.”
“Losing your touch,” said Sanchez.
“Put your gun away,” I told Sanchez.
Sanchez did and continued grinning and watching us. A squirrel ran along a tree branch overhead. We were far from Carbon Canyon Road. The air was fresh and scented with moss and soil and pine.
“I will give you a chance to fight back, which is more than you deserve.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” he said.
