Ocean Park

by Michael Walsh

  A clump of soil punched him between the shoulder blades and rained silently over his torso. Another, pounding his legs this time. The third fell on his head and when it disintegrated, the particles of dirt felt like crawling insects invading eyes and ears.

  He shut his mouth tight, but then his nose breathed the musty soil. He moved his face to the side, searching for a pocket of clean air.

  Soil came faster. The heavy foot anchored him, pressing him into the bottom of the grave.

  “Mercy,” he screamed through a spray, and was answered with another shovelful.

  The earth seemed to be crawling over him quicker, a swarm of cold mites. He spat mud and yelled, “Vithu. Vithu killed your friend. Have mercy!”

  Another shovelful came, and for a frozen second he thought he heard the scrape of the blade again. He waited. And waited.

  A minute or an hour?

  Samay stirred and found he could turn. He raised his head and shook it clean. His legs moved as he twisted and rolled like a worm. He stood and climbed from the hole.

  The car was gone, and the girl. The fire was dying. The shovel lay on the edge of the hole.

  He sank back on his knees.

  Vithu—the new, powerful Vithu—would wreak revenge on him. He’d sworn allegiance, vowed not to snitch, and was aware of the consequences. What form would his vengeance take? Samay shuddered, not from the cold, or from the wind that whistled through the sleeping trees. He hugged himself, rubbed arms pocked with goose bumps, and wondered what kind of nightmare he’d bargained for.

  Chapter 42

  Conley and Stefanos laced their fingers through the chain links of the fence around North Shore Salvage on Monday night and peered through the diamonds formed by the silver steel. River Street lay on the other side. A dark train of black SUVs with tinted windows sat next to the curb.

  A woman in a blue jacket left a van and entered the middle building. FBI was stenciled on the back of her coat in mustard-colored letters. CRIMES AGAINST CHILDREN was written underneath. Conley’s fingers tightened against the steel.

  They waited. Cars came and went, and by the time night fell only one was left.

  They walked wide to avoid it, traipsing through the overgrown riverbank and backyards to hide from the street. Stefanos entered the last tenement through an unlocked door, Conley right behind. After all the horror that had happened here, the Cambodians’ trust in mankind hadn’t been shaken.

  Sounds and smells—the racket of clattering pans, the aroma of cooking oil, the hiss of food frying.

  Second floor was the target. That’s where Vithu lived. They climbed silently, drew their guns, and entered the apartment. A sandwich sat on a plate on the kitchen counter, untouched. Stefanos and Conley continued through a doorway.

  An open room had been turned into separate cells by hanging sheets. Aluminum tracks in the ceiling supported straightened planes of fabric, most in bright colors, many of them hand painted.

  A lion peered from one, mouth open, lips baring teeth that looked as big as a saber tooth’s. Its orange and black mane stretched across the width of the curtain.

  Buddha was painted on another, a bright-eyed, happy Buddha. The world spun behind it, a globe that exaggerated the size of the peninsulas of Southeast Asia. Children and old women worshipped their god from both sides with uplifted faces and praying hands.

  Conley moved the sheets. The cubicles held empty beds and simple furniture.

  A skin tag told them Vithu had imagined a green mountain paradise, and painted his sheet with the vision. They passed through a doorway into another room of curtains, to a third cubicle. A green mountain stood in front of them, a steep, lush rise thrust upward into a brilliant blue sky. Giant palm trees were painted on both sides of the mountain, disproportionate giants that held too-round coconuts hanging under graceful fronds. A waterfall cascaded down the mountain face.

  Conley braced himself as Stefanos threw the curtain aside.

  The curtain to Paradise.

  The room was empty. A wood floor, so clean and shiny it looked wet, made it hard to believe anyone had ever lived there.

  Movement behind. They turned.

  A boy with sleepy eyes stood in front of them. He popped a last bit of sandwich into his mouth, wiped his hands on his chest, and spoke a garbled message.

  “Sorry, my friends,” he said. “Vithu doesn’t live here anymore.”

  ****

  In the room above Vithu’s, Channary lifted the suitcase onto her bed and ran a hand over the top. It was a gift from Sheila—purple, her favorite color. Slowly, she folded her clothes and packed them, then sorted her books. She couldn’t take them all. Some she selected because she loved the cover. Others she took for the words inside and the happiness they’d given her. She placed the leftovers on her absent roommates’ beds.

  Even with her pared-down book collection, the suitcase was heavy, too heavy to lift. She pulled the bag off the bed and onto the floor with a thud.

  Two quick knocks startled her. The door swung open and the Aunties came in, greeting her with smiling faces. They wore fancy clothes today, with prints and embroidery. Funny to see their necks bare, without kramas to wipe their faces and hold back their hair.

  One by one they gave her gifts—ceramics, carvings, hand-crafted jewelry. Each of them hugged her and she clung to the folds in their clothes, soft and warm. Maly—the first one she’d met who had taken her hand so long ago, the one who’d cared for her in Mr. Desh’s basement—hugged the longest. Channary would miss her the most.

  Time to leave. Maly lifted Channary’s suitcase easily and clasped Channary’s hand with her strong one, and together they left the bedroom in a line, like a sacred procession. Sheila arrived and joined Conley and Stefanos in the darkening courtyard. The plastic wheels on the purple suitcase crackled on the concrete. A woman in a blue FBI jacket held open the door to a black car. Dust motes danced in its headlights.

  Channary turned and hugged Sheila. The sketchbook Channary carried under her arm kept falling, so she made a quick decision. With a heartfelt smile, she stepped back and presented it to Sheila. Sheilaʼs smile then wobbled as she offered her thanks, tears brimming in her eyes. Channary hugged Stefanos and Conley next, then squeezed their hands in between both of hers and thanked them for their kindness to her in English,

  She climbed into the car. The door closed behind her and the engine started. She looked back and saw many shining faces in the darkness, like a sky with sparkling stars.

  She was going home at last, to friends, her mother, her brother. Strange how the anticipation of happiness could also bring tears.

  Chapter 43

  Vithu’s dream had come true—for him. Samay watched Vithu’s Lexus approach in the darkening twilight, chrome and black metal gleaming. Vithu lived away from the tenements now, and his drug business paid for a luxury apartment and a fleet of new cars. The gang had become his personal servants, muling coke and heroin. And Pon?

  Pon was nowhere to be found, and rumor was Vithu had put an end to him so he could become the new leader of the Asian Boyz. Vithu himself hinted that Pon shared the same grave as William O’Neil.

  The Lexus’ headlights lit the road between them, and Samay felt like the blinding beam blazed in inquisition whenever he stood before it. Vithu stepped onto the road, retrieved a duffle bag from the trunk, and slowly came forward. The diamonds in his gold pinky rings glittered, and the thick chain on his neck shifted with each step.

  “Samay,” he said, smiling. “Bring this to your brothers, Samay. Tell them to work through the night—cut the product and deliver it. And tell them to be grateful, Vithu’s the one looking out for them now.”

  Samay bowed his head and slung the heavy bag over his shoulder. Vithu had won; to fight against him was pointless because he was everywhere, all-seeing, all-knowing. The Asian Boyz were slaves to Vithu now, until the day they were caught and imprisoned—or killed.

  He watched Vithu head back to his car and turn
the ignition key. The motor turned but did not catch. Odd—the lights were bright and the starter whirred insistently.

  Samay adjusted the strap that bit into his neck and turned to the courtyard, trudging through cloying mud, past a high stand of still weeds, The growth rustled behind him, the straining straps relaxed, and the bag fell away.

  Samay turned. Pon held the bag with one hand and sliced a knife through its side. White powder spilled out and drifted across the weeds like a cloud.

  “Go home, Samay,” Pon said and headed toward the car. “Tell the others to sleep. Tell them peace has come.”

  ****

  A week after Channary left, Conley and Stefanos answered a call to the bank of the Saugus River. Spring rain had thickened ragweed and cattails. Dark ruby eyes stared through the brush. A pink pair joined them. The rats blinked, almost in sequence, and waited.

  Flies and maggots didn’t. They crawled over Vithu’s dead flesh and made it seem a living thing.

  Conley stood over the corpse as cops strung crime scene tape around them. The body lay on its back, face staring at the sky, arms spread, legs straight, as if crucified on the cloying gray mud. The face was intact. The hole in his chest must have been an easier meal.

  The right hand held a gun—Lloyd’s undeserved fate—a new SIG Sauer gleaming with moisture. The left held a knife—just as wet, reflecting a single point of light, a kiss from the setting sun.

  A gift.

  From who? Did it matter? After so much bad luck and heartache, why question an unexpected bit of good fortune for Ocean Park?

  He studied the corpse for a long time. A warm breeze teased the tall grass and rippled the river.

  Conley signaled a patrolman and dispatched him to notify the Aunties. One of them needed to identify the body, but not here, not now. He left Vithu and combed the area. Rusted junk, the same color as the earth, seemed to be melting and bleeding into the ground. Plastic grocery bags, wrinkled and bunched, caught on high weeds, a stiff breeze filling them like wind socks.

  Conley worked his way to the water, leaving wooden stakes as markers for the crime scene techs. He plunged a stick into the soil near a footprint that looked fresh, also marked a piece of newspaper that hadn’t yellowed yet. A campfire had burned in a clearing. Charred, ribbed bits of wood were all that remained.

  A brown drop line ran a serpentine course across the sand. Rowboats lay tilted on the beach, dull gray oarlocks thrust upward from their gunwales.

  He spun an oarlock and remembered the sound and feel of the straining oar when he and Lloyd rowed together so long ago. The delicious pull that brought movement, the rush of sliding across the glassy harbor, the small sounds of the oar blade in the still harbor, stirring, swirling, dripping, waking the water. These were working boats too, seats worn from tackle boxes, sun, rain, writhing eels, struggling fish. Knife marks decorated the wood, scars from honest work.

  Dark puddles sat in their holds. A plastic milk jug, handle intact, its top cut open to make a bailer, floated on the puddle, tacking back and forth under a pleasant gust, passing over a treasure glittering in the dark water.

  Conley knelt and reached toward the sparkle. The water was greasy and cold, thick and heavy. He felt a small chain with smooth plates attached, and lifted it out of the water. Sage’s words regarding the relationship between her parents, and between herself and William, came to him.

  See without sight.

  He closed his fist, felt the small, freezing beads numb his fingers, and squeezed the plates so hard the edges dug into his palm. He ran fingertips over engraved letters.

  Speak without words.

  He sank back in the fetid mud, opened his hand, and let the last rays of a brilliant sunset shine on the dog tags.

  William O’Neil’s name was cut into the hard metal in stark letters—deep, straight, and bold.

  Chapter 44

  Divers found William’s body in the deepest part of the Saugus River the next day. Had it been elsewhere, low tide would have revealed it before crabs and bottom feeders had taken their toll. There’d be no long-box and silk pillow viewing for what was left of William.

  Conley and Sage brought the news to William’s parents. Simon was inconsolable, but Sage did her best to comfort him, wrapping her arms around his moth-eaten sweater and holding his frail, shaking body. He forgot his prejudice for those few brief moments, suspending it for the comfort of a warm embrace. Mrs. O’Neil rocked ferociously in her chair, blissfully unaware of her son’s demise—or much else in the real world. A knife had been found on Vithu’s body that tested positive for William’s blood, but Conley withheld that bit of news. Parents rarely sought justice or closure when they learned of a child’s murder. That small comfort came later.

  Conley closed Simon’s front door and descended the porch steps. The crying inside was muffled now and the silhouettes of Sage and William’s parents moved behind the window sheers like ghosts.

  He drove back to the marina, window down. Spring had rejuvenated Ocean Park. Trees were in blossom, perfuming the air, and the day was sublime and hopeful—a stark contrast to the misery he’d just left. Good day to take the cabin cruiser out and christen the new boating season.

  Thompson’s Mercedes sat in the marina parking lot. When he parked next to her, she looked up and smiled. She wore no makeup, but it had done her a disservice anyway, hiding her unblemished face and sparkling eyes.

  “Hey, Conley,” she said, getting out and reaching into the back seat of her car. “Iʼve got something for you.”

  She handed him an album, its cover decorated with oriental shapes and symbols painted in pagan colors. He ran his hand over the leather and resisted opening it.

  “Beautiful. Not here, Thompson. Inside. I could use some beauty today.”

  He led her down the dock ramp and held the book as she climbed onto the deck of his boat. Inside, he made coffee and they sat at the galley table. She opened the book—and he lost his breath.

  A sketch of William O’Neil looked him in the eye. The tilt of his friend’s strong jaw and confident smile were captured perfectly. A full-size drawing of William was next to it. He looked ten feet tall, muscles rippling, one giant hand closed in a fist, the other open, as big as a catcher’s mitt.

  Power and resolve.

  He turned the album so they both could see. “Looks like Sage’s work.”

  “Channary gave it to me before she left. She and Sage drew them in the safe house.”

  He considered that collaboration and smiled—Sage’s wisdom and talent and Channary’s innocence and intuition.

  Lloyd Kendricks’ portrait was on the next page, laughing. Lloyd’s bad eye looked more like a gift than a deformity, a portal to his goodness and humor.

  Sheila murmured his name, not to identify him—the likeness was unmistakable—but out of affection.

  Next page.

  Stefanos—his serious expression seemed to disapprove of being made into a drawing.

  Mazzarelli—smiling and jovial, a cherubic face full of mischief.

  Her hand, soft as down, brushed his. She turned the page to the statue of Mary, its flowing robes drawn so well they looked three dimensional.

  A cicada’s high-pitched whine broke the silence, birds warbled, and a breeze rustled the tarp.

  Last page.

  Sage and Channary had drawn the two of them, Conley and Thompson, close together, facing each other. Their identical expressions looked—expectant.

  “Wow,” he said. “The girls have quite an imagination.ˮ

  Sheilaʼs smile faltered. Was she expecting a different response? The moment passed and he felt a tinge of regret, a feeling that visited often these days, along with a gnawing disappointment with himself.

  They finished their coffee. She nodded once, straight-faced, rose and tucked the book under her arm. She’d once again become the efficient social worker he’d first met. He held the door open for her and helped her onto the dock.

  “Thanks for eve
rything, Sheila. Nice job.” He offered a handshake and regretted it immediately. The gesture seemed demeaning after all they’d been through. The investigation into Victor Rodriguez’s murder had turned into horror and heartache, and the memories of the places it had taken them—dank basements, dangerous bars, The Paladin—were haunting.

  She stared at the hand and frowned. “One more thing.”

  She pulled a photo from her bag and showed him. Channary stood between an old woman and a man.

  “Channary sent this. We did it, Matt. She found her mother and brother.”

  Conley studied the picture. The woman was stoic and frail, and the brother looked proud and handsome, despite a distinctive half-moon scar that marred his youthful face. Channary’s ever-present smile shone brightly—all was finally right with her world.

  Suddenly Thompson tucked the photo into the sketchbook and handed it to him. “Open this once in a while,” she said, her glistening eyes fixed on the cover. “They say art’s good for the soul.”

  Chapter 45

  April’s weather kept improving, a warm, fragrant breath. Lisa won the special congressional election in a landslide and the Ocean Park Gazette published a front-page photo of the victory party. Hector Diaz’s crimes had been fodder for the tabloids for weeks, a new horror revealed every day. As a result, she’d run uncontested, touted as the moral candidate. Conley smiled at the irony. She and Bill McNulty were embracing in the picture, streamers on their shoulders, delirious staffers applauding all around. At least someone was happy. The hug looked platonic enough, like a teammate’s embrace. In two days their divorce would be finalized, though Lisa hadn’t bothered to wait. Funny how few people ever knew the truth behind a news story.

  He checked his watch, folded the paper, and dressed for church. The drive to St. Margaret’s took him down winding, tree-lined streets, past cookie-cutter neighborhoods with neat houses and trimmed lawns. He parked in the crowded lot next to St. Margaret’s Chapel, in the shadow of the big main church. The chapel was standing room only.