by J. R. Rain
He shook his head, but now he was looking eagerly toward the small dark house. I looked, too. Not much was going on. There was some faint light coming from the back of the house.
Sanchez said, “I cased the house last week. The kid came home alone around this time.”
“Cased?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have murderers to find?”
“Don’t start with me.”
“Brian hangs out with his friends at this time,” said Jesus. “They have a gang. Pick on kids in school, harass teachers. They get suspended all the time, smoke cigarettes, sometimes even dope.”
“Here he comes,” said Sanchez.
I looked down the street. A kid was coming towards us on a bike. Big kid. Much bigger than Jesus. And he was smoking. I could see the glowing tip of a cigarette. He passed under a streetlamp and I had a good look at his face. Wide cheekbones. Big head. The kid looked like a bully. Self-satisfied, content, mean.
He pulled up next to the chain link fence across the street.
The car door banged open behind me.
Jesus was out, running.
The boy flicked his cigarette away, stepped off the bike, and reached for the latch on the chain link fence. And turned his head just as a small dark figure tackled him hard to the ground.
Chapter Eighteen
I instinctively went for my door, but Sanchez put his hand on my shoulder. “No. Jesus wants to do this on his own.” Sanchez was frowning. He didn’t like this either.
“The other kid has him by about twenty pounds.” And since these were just kids, twenty pounds was a significant advantage.
“Jesus fights big.”
There was just enough leftover light from a nearby streetlight to see what was going on. Jesus had tackled the kid onto a grassy parkway. Now they were rolling.
Dropped over a curb and into the gutter. As this was southern California, the gutter was dry.
The other kid, the bigger kid, landed on top.
Uh oh.
But Jesus promptly reached up, grabbed a handful of the kid’s hair, and yanked him off to the side. The kid screamed.
I almost cheered.
Jesus, I discovered, did not fight fairly. And in street fighting—and when you are younger and smaller, that was the only way to go.
They were rolling again, out into the street.
There were no cars coming, luckily.
“Kid better not get dirty,” said Sanchez, shaking his head. “We’re supposed to be out getting ice cream.”
“Jesus might have other things on his mind.”
“It’s Hay-zeus, dammit.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not,” said Sanchez. “For one thing, it’s a completely different language. And considering you date a world renowned anthropologist, you show a surprising lack of cultural and religious sensitivity.”
“The word you want is ethnocentric.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Thinking one’s culture is superior to others,” I said. “Most people in most cultures suffer from it. I, however, do not suffer from it.”
“And I happen to disagree,” said Sanchez. “You are one hell of an ethnocentric motherfucker.”
Shouts and the sound of smacking flesh reached our open windows. It was hard to tell who was doing the smacking.
“Your kid winning?” I asked.
“I can’t tell, but it’s a good bet. I told him not to kick his ass too bad. I didn’t want his knuckles scuffed. His mother would have my head if she knew what we were doing. We’re supposed to be getting ice cream.”
One kid staggered to his feet, while the other lay in the middle of the street in the fetal position. Luckily, no cars were coming.
The kid on his feet was smallish. Dark hair. Good looking.
Son of a bitch, I thought. He did it.
Jesus surveyed the street, ignoring the moaning kid, spotted the bike. He staggered over to it, then dragged it over to a trash can by its front tire, sparks flying from where one of the peddles contacted the asphalt. He picked the bike up, and deposited it inside the trashcan, and closed the lid.
“Very thorough,” I said.
Jesus staggered over, pulled open the door and collapsed inside. I could smell his sweat and something else. Maybe blood, maybe bike grease. Outside, a couple of porchlights turned on, including the one we were parked in front of.
“Let’s go,” said Sanchez.
“Anyone feel like ice cream?” I asked.
Chapter Nineteen
Cindy and I were in her condo on a perfect Sunday afternoon watching football. During the fall, I don’t work weekends or Monday nights. Cindy knows this about me and mostly puts up with it.
Outside, through the blinds, the sun was shining. We were wasting another perfect day. Big deal. Most days in Orange County were perfect. Besides, football is worth wasting a few perfect days over.
“So explain what that yellow line means again? Do the players see it?”
“No,” I said. I didn’t mind explaining football to Cindy. I took pride in the fact that football seemed an overly complex game for the uninitiated. “The players can’t see it. The yellow line is for the benefit of the fans.”
“And you are quite a fan.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Probably because I played the game. I know how difficult football is.”
“I thought you said it was easy.”
“No. I said football came easy to me. Playing my position, fullback, came naturally to me. However, everything else was hard. The grueling practices in one hundred-degree heat with twenty pounds of pads. Playing when hurt. Picking yourself up off the ground after you’ve had your bell rung.”
“And pretending it didn’t hurt,” said Cindy.
“Yep.”
“You rung a few bells in your time.”
“That’s how I made my living.”
“Except you weren’t paid.”
“Alas, no.”
“So why is there a yellow line?”
“It denotes the first down.”
She snapped her fingers. I could almost see the light on behind her eyes. “You’ve told me that before.”
“Yes.”
“But you never sound impatient.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I happen to like you.”
Cindy’s condo was cozy and immaculate. She had painted her north kitchen wall red. It looked orange to me, but I have it on good authority—Cindy’s—that it was indeed red. The small kitchen had a ceramic red rooster on the fridge, and lots of country knickknacks. The rest of the house was laced with curtains. Cindy loved curtains. She even had curtains behind curtains. The walls were adorned with many of my own abstract paintings. She was my #1 fan.
Cindy’s Pomeranian, Ginger, was sleeping on the couch between us, and looked like a little red throw pillow. I was working on a can of Diet Pepsi. Cindy was drinking herbal tea. Earlier, she had asked if I wanted some herbal tea, and I politely suggested herbal tea sucked ass. Now we were watching the Rams game, and eating one of her few original dishes, a 7-layer bean dip. Today, I counted only five layers.
“No guacamole or sour cream,” she admitted. “So I added more beans.”
“Did you say more beans?”
She thought about that, and groaned. “Oh, God, what have I done?”
I grinned and dug into the dip.
At halftime, Cindy said, “The vandals struck again.”
I picked up the remote control and clicked off the TV and set the chips on the coffee table, and turned and looked at her.
“When?”
“Friday. Broke into my office, destroyed the place, ruined everything I owned. Pissed in the corners, defecated on my books.”
“What did the campus police say?”
“They’re looking into it. Appears to be a guy and a gal, according to the video fo
otage they have. But both are masked.”
“Any more messages?”
“I think the pile of crap on the title page of my latest textbook on world religions was message enough.”
I inhaled. I was shaking. Adrenaline surged through my veins.
Cindy stroked my arm with her palm. “I’m not scared, okay? I’m used to this. I’ve lived with this my entire life. Many people hate my name and me. Remember, I have a permit to pack heat.” She did, too. She carried a small .22 in her purse. “I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t want you to ever need to use your heat.”
“Which is why I have a big, strong boyfriend. Besides, you have been watching over me, right?”
“Every night you teach.”
“But I don’t see you.”
“No,” I said.
“Which means they don’t either.”
“Exactly.”
“You are good.”
“Exactly.”
“Hey, we’re missing the game. Looks like someone crossed over that yellow line thingy. That’s a good thing, right?”
Except now, I didn’t feel much like watching the game. The vandals upset Cindy, which upset me. Someone was going to pay.
Chapter Twenty
It was after lunch and I was back in my office listening to my voicemail. The first message was from Bank of America. I hear from them each day. Good people. Very persistent. My pal the female computer recording asked me to please hold, followed by some static and then a human voice that said: “Hello, hello?” a few times before hanging up. I owed Bank of America many thousands of dollars. Bank of America and I were just going to have to suffer through some lean times together.
The second message was from BofA.
So was the third.
The fourth was from a man I did not at first identify. The voice was soft and hesitant. I pressed the receiver harder against my ear and replayed the message from the beginning. It was from Jarred, the Rawhide town historian, and he wanted to see me ASAP. He gave me a location and a time. I looked at my watch. I could make it if I hurried.
* * *
An hour and a half later, I was sipping a Diet Coke at Sol’s Cafe in Hesperia. I ordered a burger and fries, and read a few pages of an emergency novel I keep in my glove box, a John Sanford I’ve been working on here and there.
Jarred arrived just as I was working on the last of the burger. The Rawhide historian looked a little wild-eyed and unsettled. Half of his shirt collar was turned up. He sat opposite me and looked out the window, as if making sure he hadn’t been followed. Then he glanced down at my nearly finished meal.
“Been here long?” he asked.
I shrugged. “About eight or nine minutes.”
“And you’ve already finished your meal?”
“What can I say? I’m a pig.”
He gave me a half grin, but seemed distracted. He kept looking out the cafe window. I looked, too, but didn’t see much, other than the nearly empty parking lot. Jarred’s face was pale, the color of worm guts.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, fine. Look, sorry for the clandestine meeting.” There was sweat on his brow and upper lip. The bottom rim of his glasses had collected sweat as well. Knee bouncing. Playing with his fork, flipping it over and over.
I watched all of this. “Clandestine is good. Makes me feel important.” I pushed the rest of the hamburger in my mouth. “Besides, I’ve always been meaning to check this place out.”
“Really? Oh, you’re joking.”
“You want a drink?” I asked.
“No, I’m fine.” He looked out the window again.
“What’s out there?” I asked.
His knee stopped bouncing. Wiped the sweat from his brow. “I think I was followed here.”
“By who?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why do you think you were followed?”
“Because it was a Rawhide maintenance truck, and it tailed me out here.”
I had seen the trucks scattered around Rawhide. “One of those blue deals,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why would anyone follow you?”
He shrugged. “Maybe someone doesn’t want me to meet you.”
Jarred pushed his glasses up, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it on the table in front of me. It was a map. A hand-drawn map; of what, I couldn’t be sure.
“You still want me to show you where we took Willie?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Look, I was told that if I cooperated with you, I would be fired. I like my job, and I’m doing good things out there. I’m making a name for myself. Now, I can’t help you directly,” he said, “but this is the next best thing.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a map to the site.”
“Where Sylvester was originally found?” I said. “And where you took Willie Clarke?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the map. It seemed fairly basic, with very clear and concise directions.
“Where exactly was Willie’s body found?” I asked.
Jarred pointed to an X on the map. “Somewhere along here, about five or ten miles from the site.”
“Where he died of heat and fatigue and dehydration,” I said, “after his car ran out of gas.”
Jarred looked positively sick. He swallowed and said, “That’s what I understand. Lord, if I would have known he was out of gas, I would have given him a lift.”
“You didn’t wait for him?”
“His truck started right up. I thought he took an alternate route out of the desert, as he was heading back into Orange County. We thought he was fine.”
“Hell of a way to go,” I said. “Dying in this godforsaken heat.”
Jarred looked away. That he felt guilt or some remorse for the death of the college graduate was evident.
“Just make sure you have a full tank,” he said to me. “If you head out there.”
“I will.”
“And water.”
“I’ll stock up here in town.”
“You need help with the directions?”
I looked at them again. “Seem clear enough.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Why are you going out there?”
“Scene of the crime.”
“But there’s been no crime, at least not according to the police.”
I grinned. “I didn’t say which crime. I want to investigate where Sylvester was found as well.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s tied into this somehow.”
“Or maybe not at all,” said Jarred.
“Or not at all,” I said.
“There’s nothing out there, you know. It’s just an empty desert valley. I’ve been out there dozens of times myself. It’s just a big waste of time.”
I shrugged. “Who knows, maybe you actually missed something.”
“I doubt it. I’m very thorough.”
“I bet.”
He was looking out the window again, but this time he seemed lost in thought. His glasses had slipped to the tip of his narrow nose; he left them there. He flicked his gaze back to me. “Good luck and be safe.” He stood suddenly. “I have to get back to work. Are you heading to the site now?”
“Sure.”
He nodded and left. I watched him go. Outside, through the window, I watched him quickly cross the parking lot and get into the cab of a black Ford F-150. Before stepping in, he made a show of carefully looking around. And then he was gone, tires kicking up dust in the gravel parking lot. He hung a right and headed east on Highway 15, back toward Rawhide.
Chapter Twenty-one
I found a 7-11 in Hesperia and bought two gallons of water and a king-size bag of peanut M&M’s. Ought to hold me. I had three-quarters of a tank of gas and decided that should be adequate. According to Jarred’s map, I wasn’t heading more
than fifty miles out into the desert.
With the open bag of M&M’s nestled in my lap, I munched away and headed east on Highway 15. As far as M&Ms go, I didn’t prefer one color to the other. Colors, to me, were a moot point anyway. Still, I often wondered what the M’s meant.
Twenty minutes later, I turned off Highway 15 and onto a narrow road called Burning Woman, instantly surrounded by a lot of rock and sand and heat.
I continued on and the deeper I got into the desert, the more I watched my temperature gauge. So far, so good. Hell, the bottled water was as much for my car as for me.
Occasionally, I checked my rearview mirror. No sign of a blue truck.
My windows were down. Sweat collected at the base of my spine. I sipped some water. Actually, a lot of water. The radio didn’t work. So I listened to the rush of wind past my open window and to the not so gentle purr of the Mustang’s rebuilt engine. There were no freeway noises out here. No honking horns or the rumble of Harleys.
This is nice.
Eerie.
But nice.
Per the map, I was to turn left onto a very small, winding road near a cluster of boulders. I soon found the boulders and made the left, using my turn signal because you never know who’s waiting behind a cluster of boulders.
Chapter Twenty-two
I sat in my car and peered down into the valley. This smelled of a set up, a trap. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.
My car wasn’t getting any cooler.
I didn’t have to go down into the valley. I didn’t have to observe the spot where Sylvester was found. The last place Willie was seen alive.
Sure, I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. It was part of my job, part of the investigation; it was why I made the big bucks.
You could come back later with Sanchez and check the place out first.
Or not.
I drummed my fingers some more, took in a lot of hot air. Sweat coated my skin. I stopped drumming long enough to drink some water, then resumed the drumming.
Then again, if I headed down into the canyon to look under the proverbial rock, it might be interesting to see what comes scurrying out into the light of day.
