Into the Dark

by Rick Mofina

  “This is Robert Bowen’s phone,” a woman said. “Who’s calling?”

  What the heck?

  “I’m Claire Bowen, his wife. And who are you?”

  “Mrs. Bowen, I’m a nurse at Pacific Breeze Memorial Hospital. I just called your office. Your husband’s just been brought in-”

  “Brought in? What for? What happened?”

  “He’s been involved in a car accident-he’s-”

  “A car accident? Is he hurt? Can you put him on the phone now, please?”

  Claire could hear the hospital’s loudspeaker system echoing in the background.

  “I can’t. He’s with the E.R. doctor, Mrs. Bowen-” Claire fished out her keys and turned the ignition as the nurse continued. “All I can tell you at this point is that he does not appear to have any serious injuries.”

  “You’ve seen him? You’re certain?”

  “Yes, I’m in the E.R. He’s been brought in for observation. It’s just happened now. We’ve got a number of trauma patients.”

  Claire keyed the hospital’s name into her GPS. She could be there in twenty-five minutes, less if the traffic was good.

  “Please tell him I’m on my way.”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Bowen.”

  “Wait, what’s your name?”

  “Lilly Springer.”

  “I’ll ask for you at the desk.”

  When Claire ended the call, her phone rang.

  “Claire, it’s Alice.” Alarm sounded in her voice. “The Pacific Breeze hospital just called about Robert and a car accident.”

  “I know. I just spoke with the E.R. nurse. She said he’s okay.”

  “Oh, thank heaven.”

  “I’m on my way to the hospital.”

  “Okay, want me to clear your schedule for the rest of the day? You have a couple of hours until your next patient.”

  “Don’t move anything yet. I’ll have a better idea after I get to the hospital. I’ll call.”

  Driving through the city, Claire took a few deep breaths to keep calm, never letting go of the nurse’s assurance that Robert was not hurt. But it ran counter to human nature not to worry and Claire would not be assured until she saw him, until she held him.

  She thought of their last moment together a few days ago and remembered his cologne, the rustle of his crisp shirt and the brush of his lips on hers. She was still in bed and he’d bent down, lifted her hair and kissed her goodbye in the early morning before he’d left for this trip.

  “I love you,” he’d whispered.

  And now this.

  This reminder of how life can change in an instant.

  The web of our existence is a fragile thing.

  Claire knew that too well from her own life and the lives of her patients-how dreams could be taken away or shattered. We’re on the threshold of becoming parents-a dream they had long been denied.

  Arriving at the hospital, Claire saw four ambulances at the emergency entrance. Nearby she saw a number of police vehicles and TV news trucks. She hurried through the automatic doors. Half a dozen media people had gathered around a hospital official at one side of the lobby and were pressing her for information. Claire continued to the woman seated at the reception window. Behind her, two staff members stood as they worked at computer terminals.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see my husband, Robert Bowen. I’m Claire Bowen, his wife. I spoke on the phone to an E.R. nurse, Lilly Springer.”

  The receptionist’s face registered recognition and she turned to the women behind her.

  “Lil?”

  One of the women stepped from the counter. She was fresh-scrubbed, with a ponytail and an upturned nose.

  “Hello, Mrs. Bowen, I’m Lilly.” She nodded at the door to the right of the window and it buzzed. “Come through here, please.”

  Antiseptic smells hung heavy in the air as they moved down the polished hallway. The nurse’s soft-soled shoes squeaked when they stopped at a small waiting room.

  “Please have a seat, Mrs. Bowen. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

  “How long before I see my husband? You said he was okay?”

  “Yes, it should only be a few more minutes.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “The doctor should have more information.” The nurse smiled before leaving.

  Claire took stock of the room-of its brown faux leather sofas and outdated copies of Time and People on wicker tables. Still tense from the drive and worry, she sat down and inhaled slowly. On the sofa facing her, a woman with a wrinkled face bowed her head to the rosary in her gnarled fingers. The beads clicked softly and her lips moved as she prayed. Sitting beside the woman was a younger man. His T-shirt, blue jeans and work boots were stained with blotches of paint. He looked as if he’d rushed here from a work site. He stared into the worn ball cap in his lap as if it held his past and his future.

  They were the only people still in the room with Claire when a man arrived, wearing a white lab coat over blue scrubs and carrying a chart.

  “Mrs. Bowen, here for Robert Bowen?”

  “Yes.” Claire stood.

  “Dr. Shaw.” He shook Claire’s hand. “We’ll talk in the room across the hall.” The room was smaller; the doctor left the door open indicating their conversation would be brief. Claire stood while he tapped a pen on the chart as he reviewed it.

  “Your husband’s fine.” He kept reading.

  “Can you tell me about his car accident?”

  “As I understand it, he was not involved, but came upon it and helped rescue people. He was pulled away just as the wreckage exploded.”

  “Dear God.”

  “He’s lucky. He and the people he saved are fine. He’s got some abrasions and very mild shock, but he can go home. We’ll give you sedatives so he can rest at home. I’ll take you to him, then you can sign some papers for discharge.” He smiled.

  “Thank you, Dr. Shaw.”

  “And we understand there are some press folks who are interested in talking to him out front. That’s entirely up to him of course.”

  They turned to leave but the doorway was blocked by the man who had been in the waiting room with Claire. He was holding his ball cap with both hands, slipping its rim through his paint-flecked fingers.

  “Can I help you?” Dr. Shaw said.

  “Please forgive me, but I overheard-” he nodded to Claire “-about your husband.” Claire shot a questioning glance to Dr. Shaw, but the man continued. His accented English was strong. “I am Ruben Montero. My son, Alex, he is eleven and he was in the accident with my wife and daughter. They were delivering donations to our church.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Shaw said, recognizing the name. “Alex. He’s with Anne, Dr. Feldstein. Would you like me to see about him?”

  “No, I’ve spoken to him. We’re going to see my wife and daughter soon. But Alex told me what this lady’s husband did for my wife, Maria, and our baby, Bonita.”

  “Oh, yes. He must have helped get them to safety,” Claire said, surprised when Ruben Montero suddenly took her hand.

  “He saved the lives of my family,” Claire felt Montero’s callused hand tighten on hers and looked into his face, close enough to notice his stubble. “For that, I thank him with every beat of my heart. Tell him for me.”

  “I will, Mr. Montero.”

  “You are blessed for having such a man for your husband. You are blessed because a man like this…a man like this, is rare.”

  8

  Los Angeles, California

  Robert Bowen was alone.

  He was sitting on the table of the examination room. The faint ringing in his ears had stopped. He stared at the large clock on the wall above the eye chart and scales. Outside the closed door he heard the loudspeaker’s muffled dispatches over the bustle in the hall while here, in the quiet, he listened to the whir of the clock’s movement.

  It was only a moment ago that he’d held the baby…

  …then
hands grasp his legs, drag them from the car…clear, the explosion, lift the wreckage, rattle the debris, the flames, heat, hands drag them…the ensuing mayhem, the baby’s cries, the sirens, the paramedics: “Can you hear me, sir? We’re taking you to the hospital… The baby’s going to be okay!”

  Everyone had survived, they’d told him, with no life-threatening injuries.

  A miracle.

  The clock’s minute hand swept time.

  He was still shaky. His few scrapes had been cleaned and dressed. A nurse had said Claire was on her way.

  The room smelled of rubbing alcohol and held a trace of gas. His white shirt, torn, streaked with road grime, along with his pants, was stuffed into a clear plastic bag in the corner. They’d given him a surgeon’s T-shirt and pants to get home in.

  He stared at nothing, contemplating the last few moments. Adrenaline was still rippling through him. He massaged his temples, shut his eyes and again he was cast back to the accident.

  An ominous wave rolled over him then suddenly…the hands that had grasped his legs became talons pulling him into the inferno, dragging him down, down, down, through the burning recesses, through the lava slime of every shame, to the breathing, heaving bubbling pit of every foul, cursed thought, every bestial urge. Every vile desire, until he came to… It calls to him now, demanding he answer: Why did you let the woman and her baby live?

  Bowen said nothing.

  No one knew the battle raging within him.

  The soft buzzing of the clock’s movement filled the silence that passed.

  He continued massaging his temples. For how long, he didn’t know. But he kept rubbing until his heart rate slowed, his breathing slowed, until he heard the clock, the subdued sounds of the loudspeaker and activity in the hallway as the door to his room swung open and Claire entered.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  She hugged and kissed him.

  “How are you doing?” She brushed his hair lightly, taking quick inventory of his scrapes.

  “I’m fine, how about you?”

  Tears filled her eyes as she nodded and smiled.

  “Good. Let’s get you home.”

  An administration staff member and a nurse helped Claire expedite Robert’s discharge. As they stepped out of the hospital, Claire saw Ruben Montero turn from talking with a half a dozen reporters.

  “That’s him, with that lady, the man who saved my family.”

  Microphones and bright TV lights collected around them.

  “Sir, are you Robert Bowen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Carmen Chow, First Witness News,” said a woman in her twenties wearing heavy makeup. “Sir, this man says you saved his family. Do you consider yourself a hero?”

  Bowen looked at Claire then at Carmen Chow.

  “No, I just did what anyone would’ve done in the same situation.”

  “We’re told a lot of people at the scene were afraid,” one reporter said.

  “Not this man.” Ruben Montero beamed, taking Robert’s hand and shaking it. “This man is a good man, a great hero!”

  A razor-thin line of unease cut behind Bowen’s smile.

  He knew the truth.

  9

  Downey, California

  Standing in the kitchen of his bungalow, Joe Tanner watched the old video playing on his cell phone of his wife, Rebecca.

  “Hi, Joe. I’m feeling pretty good today, I almost think I can beat this, I-” She tried to smile from under the bandana covering the fine tufts that used to be her hair. “If I don’t beat this, just hug Sam today for me, okay.”

  As she touched a tissue to the corners of her eyes, he traced her face on the screen with his finger.

  “That’s it for this one, sorry,” she said.

  The video ended.

  It was among several hundred Becky had left him, and even though it had been two years, just seeing her and hearing her gave him comfort. It helped him through the hard days, like today. He was anxious about his meeting and what he was going to do about the big break in the Bradford case.

  It’s what I have to do.

  He checked the time on his phone. He was running late. He went to the fridge for milk and eggs, smiling at the watercolor flower framing a photograph of Becky, when she still had beautiful hair. This latest piece of art was created by Samantha Tanner, Age 6, according to the artist’s signature. It was titled “My Mommy,” and was fastened to the door with a banana magnet, next to Samantha’s paintings of a polar bear, a house-“Our House”-and a smiling stick man and smiling stick girl holding hands, titled “Daddy and Me.”

  Tanner tucked his tie into his dress shirt, draped a dish towel over his shoulder and started scrambling eggs. While they cooked he went down the hall calling to his daughter.

  “Come on, Sam! You’re going to be late for school!”

  “I can’t find my socks, Dad!”

  “Laundry room! Let’s go!”

  Back in the kitchen he poured two glasses of orange juice and checked on the eggs. Then he flipped through yesterday’s mail: junk, a few bills and a letter from a local charity he’d supported after they’d lost Becky.

  Dear Mr. Tanner:

  As someone personally affected by the disease, we’re hoping we can once again count on your participation to make this year’s fundraising event…

  Sure, he thought, he’d be there. He set the mail aside and checked the eggs when the phone rang. It was Kim, his sister.

  “Joe, do I pick up Sam today, or tomorrow?” she asked while munching. Sounded like an apple.

  “You know I hate it when you do that.”

  “Do what? Help my little bro?”

  “Chew in my ear, wiseass.”

  “Somebody’s tense. So-” she kept chewing “-is it today?”

  “Hang on.” He consulted the calendar on the fridge. The notation “Sam-dentist checkup” occupied the next day’s square.

  “It’s tomorrow. Sign her out of school at one, and thanks.”

  “Got it. Then I’ll take her shopping for new clothes, just us girls.”

  Tanner wedged the phone to his ear and served eggs from the frying pan onto two plates, then made toast.

  “Oh,” his sister added, “my friend Remmie is wondering if you’re ever going to call her?”

  “Stop trying to fix me up.”

  Everybody in his circle had a desire to see him paired, including his relic of a partner, Harvey Zurn. “I keep telling you Joe, you should meet my cousin Linda, recently divorced with a little boy. She’s ex-military, a good cook with a good figure.”

  On the other end of the line, Tanner’s sister sighed.

  “You need to meet some women, Joey.”

  “I’m fine- Sam, breakfast! Listen, Kim, I love you for helping me and looking out for me but my new unit’s keeping me pretty busy. Don’t forget, tomorrow at one. Thanks, sis. Please finish eating before calling people. I love you. Bye.”

  As he set the plates down, Samantha entered the kitchen and before getting into her chair, pulled up her pant legs to reveal one blue sock and one pink sock.

  “See? Everybody’s doing it, Dad.”

  She had Becky’s eyes and her curls. At times, he could hear her voice.

  “You’re a weird little kid.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Eat up.”

  Afterward, while Samantha brushed her teeth and her hair, Tanner went to his small study for his badge. He then opened his gun safe for his weapon, clipped on his hip holster and collected his files.

  During the drive through North Downey to Samantha’s school, he stole glimpses of her in the rearview mirror, sitting in the backseat in her booster seat.

  “So how are you doing today, Sam?”

  “A-OK, Dad.”

  “Anything on your mind? You said something was bugging you?”

  “How much longer do I have to sit in this seat for babies?”

  “Two more years.”

  “Two years? That�
�s like forever!”

  “Don’t be in too big a hurry to grow up.” He grinned.

  When they arrived at the school drop-off zone, Samantha climbed out of her seat and the car. Then she appeared at his window, her backpack strapped on. She drew her face to his and he leaned out to hug and kiss her.

  “Love you, Daddy.”

  “Love you, kiddo.”

  He watched her enter the school, thinking how much she was like Becky. Then he looked at the files on his passenger seat and the summaries of several unsolved homicides. The first had happened ten years ago.

  A wave of sadness rolled over him.

  He could measure his life against these cold cases.

  He couldn’t stop his wife’s killer, no one could. His challenge now: Would he be able to find the monster behind these slayings? He didn’t know if this meeting and what he needed to do were smart moves. Given the issue of timing, dates and some long-shot theories, it looked like his only option.

  He picked up the stack of folders and the note affixed to it.

  Mark Harding

  Reporter

  AllNews Press Agency,

  Los Angeles Bureau.

  10

  Commerce, California

  “I’m Mark Harding, here to see Detective Joe Tanner.”

  The receptionist at the Homicide Bureau of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department greeted him with a weak smile and a cool assessment.

  Harding stood just over five and half feet tall and was sensitive to his height and slight overbite.

  “Good morning, Mark. And you’re with…”

  “I’m a reporter with the AllNews Press Agency.”

  Charmed, her smile broadened. “Are you British?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love your accent.”

  The receptionist typed on her keyboard, spoke softly into her headset then looked to Harding. “You’re a bit early. Please have a seat. Detective Tanner will be here shortly.”

  The lobby’s cushioned chair gave a vinyl squeak as Harding pondered how he’d come to be here to see Tanner. He didn’t know the guy and had never heard of him until a few days ago when Tanner called him.