by Rick Mofina
“Your drinking’s out of hand. I’ve asked you to stop. You don’t seewhat it’s doing to us, to Zach, to you.”
He rapped the spoon sharply on the table.
“Ann, I’ve been professionally humiliated, I’ve been suspended,dumped into a toilet of political crap, and this is the understanding you showme.”
“Lower your voice!” she whispered.
He downed his wine and refilled his glass.
“Tom, why can’t you realize that you are not infallible?”
“I was not wrong.”
“Something went wrong! I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You brought it up, dear.” He gulped more wine.
“You have no idea what Zach and I went through after seeing you on networkTV slapped by the widow of that poor teacher.”
“That poor teacher killed Tanita Marie Donner, Ann!”
“You don’t know that. The police said he was not-“
“Fuck the police! Wallace was a twisted child-killer.”
“Stop it! Just stop it!” Ann’s hushed voice was breaking.
A few tense moments passed. She touched the corners of her eyes withher napkin. “We need some time apart,” she said. “I’m taking Zach and we’regoing to stay with my mother in Berkley.”
It was like a sledgehammer blow to his stomach.
“I don’t know if I can live with you anymore,” she whispered. “If Ilove you anymore.” She covered her mouth with her hand.
They skipped dessert and went home. A few days later, he helped Annlift suitcases to their van, watching in silence as his wife and son droveaway. He went into the house and drank himself unconscious.
Reed found the scene near Ocean at San Jose. Nearby, a tangle ofpolice cars blocked the entrance to the Balboa BART station, lights flashing,radios crackling.
A working-class neighborhood, Balboa was favored with a degree ofgentrification at its fringes: a smattering of eclectic boutiques, yuppifiedhouses and apartment blocks. A cop directed traffic around the area. Peoplecraned their necks at the yellow crime-scene tape; others watched from windowsand balconies.
“Tom!”
Paul Wong, a Star photographer, trotted after him, two Nikonsdangling from his neck, a camera bag over his shoulder.
“Just pulled in behind you,” Wong said. “Isn’t this the same placewhere they found the little girl, Marie something?”
“Tanita Marie Donner.”
“Yeah.” Wong suddenly remembered everything.
As they headed toward the police tape, they clipped on their presscards. Reed called the paper on his cell phone. Wong banged off a few frames.
“Star, Molly Wilson.” Police radios were clamoring.
“It’s Reed. Got anything for us?”
“Speak up, I’m in the radio room.”
“What have you got?”
“A genuine stranger abduction. The kid somehow wanders off thetrain. Dad gets a one-second glimpse of his boy with a strange man on theplatform just as the train is pulling out. He hits the emergency brake bar,kicks out an emergency window and runs after them. But they vanished. Happenedthat fast. They’re pulling out all the stops, bringing in K-9, goingdoor-to-door in a grid for a twenty-block radius. Simon’s on his way withanother photographer.
“Get a name on the kid and his dad?”
“Father is Nathan Becker, son is Danny. Unlisted. Library’s goingthrough driving and property records. Beck is still around, being questionedsomewhere. They haven’t taken him to Ingleside Station yet. Mom is home alone.They’ve sent people to tell her and set up for a possible ransom call. Noaddress over the air, but I gather it’s near the University of San Francisco,Jordan Park maybe.”
“FBI?”
“On their way. Tom, do you think it’s connected to Donner?”
“Wallace is dead, Molly.”
“Copycat, maybe?”
“Who knows? Call you later.”
Reed and Wong shouldered their way to the tape, where a cop liftedit, directing them to a police an in the distance where reporters wereclustered around an officer. On the way there, Reed nudged Wong. Across thestreet, a pony-tailed woman in her thirties, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt,stepped out of Roman’s Tub amp; Shower Boutique. An ID card was clipped to herwaist, and she was instructing an officer, pointing somewhere, as they hurriedaway together.
“Let’s go in there,” Reed said.
“What for?”
“A hunch.”
Bells jingled as they entered. Roman’s smelled of jasmine and had anexquisite Florentine storefront displaying overpriced towels. A slim, tannedman with bleached hair was sitting at a small table in one corner of the storewith a distraught-looking man. The thin man rose instantly, approaching Reedand Wong.
“I’m sorry, we are closed,” he said, arms shooing them away.
“Door’s open and there’s no sign,” Reed said. He noticed a woman atthe rear of the store on a telephone. She was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt,with a laminated ID clipped to her waist. Reed moved quickly. Approaching thedistraught man at the table. His widened eyes were horror-stricken, his short brownhair messed. He had a long, bloody scrape on one cheek. His clothes werestreaked with black greasy smudges. He was staring at nothing.
“Please, you’ll have to leave,” the thin man said.
“We’re here to speak to Mr. Nathan Becker.”
Bewildered, the distraught man said, “I am Nathan Becker.”
The woman on the phone materialized, and pegging Reed and Wong forpress, inserted herself between them and Becker.
According to her tag, Kim Potter was a volunteer with a victim’scrisis group. “Leave now. This man isn’t giving any press interviews.”
Wong looked at Reed. They didn’t move. Reed looked around Potter.
“Is this true, Mr. Becker? Does this woman speak for you?”
Becker was silent.
“Please leave now!” Potter raised her voice.
“Mr. Becker, we’re with The San Francisco Star. Do you wishto tell us what happened? I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but I willrespect your answer.”
Nathan Becker rubbed his hand over his face, tears streaming downhis cheeks. “We have to find him. We have to find Danny. Maggie will bedestroyed. He’s all we have.”
“Yes. What happened?” Reed stepped closer.
“Go get Inspector Turgeon,” Potter ordered the clerk. She glared atReed, angrily punching numbers into the store phone, shouting into it about “apress problem.”
Reed would have to hurry.
Trapped alone in his nightmare, Becker began.
“They won’t let me search. It was a man, I saw him for less than asecond. Bearded, white, about six feet, medium build, sandy hair, wearing acap. I stopped the train, I ran, it was too late, it happened so fast. I onlylooked away for a few seconds. He wandered to one end of the car and… — …damn it! Why wasn’t I watching him?”
Reed took notes, softly asking questions. Becker was clutching awallet-size snapshot of himself with Danny on his shoulders, laughing asDanny’s mom looked up adoringly. The radiant, white, upper-middle-class,professional family. Police were going to duplicate the photo. Wong took shotsof it, and of Becker holding it.
“Why would somebody want to take Danny, Mr. Becker?” Reed asked.
Becker didn’t know. His face disappeared into his hands. Wong’scamera clicked and the store’s entrance bells pealed.
“That’s enough!”
It was the pony-tailed woman who left earlier. Flanked by twouniformed officers, she faced Reed.
“This interview is over,” she said. The uniforms pulled Reed andWong aside and she copied their names into her leather-bound notebook. She hadhard brown eyes. “Tom Reed,” she said. “Why am I not surprised? Pull this stuntagain and you’ll be charged.”
“Ever hear of the constitution?” Reed shot back. Glimpsing her waistand id. He couldn’t get her name without being rude.
Igno
ring Reed, she stepped back to the front.
“Sorry about this, Mr. Becker,” she said.
The bells rang and Sydowski filled the doorway, then walked to thestore’s rear. “Well, well, well, if this isn’t a curse.” He looked at Reed.“Everything in order…Inspector Turgeon, is it?”
“Turgeon, correct. Yes, all in order.”
“You should have taken Mr. Becker here to Ingleside Station.”
“Mikelson in General wanted him near the scene for now.”
“Yeah. I’ve just spoken with Gord. We’ll be moving Mr. Beckershortly. Now, if no one objects, I’ll take care of Mr. Reed.” Sydowski clampedReed’s arm firmly, escorting him out the rear of the shop. The two patrolmenfollowed with Wong.
Alone in the back alley, Sydowski backed Reed against a wall andwinced. His heartburn, the price he paid for eating that dog, was irritatinghim. He jabbed his finger into Reed’s chest.
“Just what the hell are you doing?”
“My job.”
“How’d you find Becker?”
“Instinct. How are you anyway?”
“Delirious. See you’re still getting paid to kill trees?”
“Sure, I’ve been promoted. I am now the patron saint of reporterswho trusted their police sources.”
“Thomas. Thomas, ask me if I give two shits,” Sydowski said.“Listen, voychik, you fucked yourself so beautifully you would’ve made amillion as a freak act. I told you to sit on the stuff you had. Didn’t I? I wasdoing you a favor, remember that.”
“Still raising little birdies, Walt?”
An unmarked car inched its way up the alley. Sydowski raised hishand, stopping it at the rear of the store.
“We’re taking Becker home now. The wife collapsed at the news.”
“What have you got?”
“Beats me.”
“C’mon.”
“A kidnapping.”
“Why did they call you to this? You’re Homicide.”
He blinked several times. “What do you think, Tom?”
“Do you think it’s a copycat?”
Sydowski looked away, and swallowed. His Adam’s apple bounced andhis face saddened. “Who knows?” he said, his eyes burning from the hotdog, theonions. The unknowns. “I have to go.”
FIVE
Dropping his last fare of the day at City College, Willie Hampton sighed at the wheel of his cab andbegan humming a tune from South Pacific. Old Willie couldn’t restrainhis bliss. In three hours, he would strap his vacation-starved butt into theseat of an Oahu-bound 747 and leave the driving to the hacks who didn’t lookback. Take me to Pearl and step on it, Willie chuckled. Gonna get me a lei.
Seaman Hampton of the U.S.S. California would pay hisrespects in person to the boys of the Arizona. He would pin on hisDistinguished Service Medal and let them know he never forgot. No, sir. Then,for three weeks, he would ride at anchor. Willie switched off his radio and washeaded for the shop when he spotted a fare near Balboa Park at San Jose andPaulding. A curbside.
No dice, pal.
Willie looked again. The guy had a kid, a little girl draped overhis shoulder. Maybe she was sick or something. What the hell? But only if itwas on his way. Maybe keep it off the books.
Willie pulled over.
“Logan and Good.”
That’s Wintergreen. The man didn’t look like a rez of that war zone.He had dark glasses, was stone faced. The kid was sleeping, long blond hair.Balloon still tied to her hand. Must’ve come from the park. Okay, it was on hisway.
“Hop in.” Willie reached back, popped a rear door. The man placedthe kid down to sleep, her head in his lap. “Too much fun for your princesstoday?” Willie said to his rearview mirror.
“Yes.”
Half a dozen blocks later, two SFPD black-and-whites, with lightswig-wagging, screamers yelping, roared by Willie in the opposite direction. Hestifled his usual comment on San Francisco’s criminal vermin. His fare haddropped his head onto the rear dash.
Aww, let ‘em sleep.
Edward Keller was not sleeping. He was praying. Thanking God for Hisradiant protection in helping him secure the Angel. All of his devotion,watching, planning-the chloroform, the wig, balloon-it had worked. Gloriously.
Keller floated with his thoughts back, months back, even though timewas meaningless to him. His mind was floating … to … a watery death.
He repeated it to himself as if it were an incantation.
It was April. April, death’s chosen month.
Standing at the edge of the pier, gazing upon the Pacific. All thathe was, all that he had been, looked back from the still water.
Eyes that haunt my dreams.
Prolonged severe grief reaction, the doctor had called it.
Keller remembered the doctor staring at him, twisting a rubber band.“Accept that you cannot change reality, Edward. And understand that at thisinstitute, those self-admitted take a lower priority. Move on with your life.Find solace where you can.
Keller had found it.
In his visions.
And out there among the fog-shrouded Farrallon Islands, where hislife ended, and where he would resurrect it. His heart now knew his destiny. Ithad been revealed to him.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth.
Filling the tanks of the boat, Reimer studied him standing there atthe dock’s edge, clutching the big paper-wrapped package.
Edward.
That was the guy’s name. Reimer couldn’t recall his last name. Theguy looked-what? Late forties, early fifties? Slim? No. Gaunt, really. Aboutsix foot. Could use a haircut and lose that shaggy beard. If Reimer had to behonest, old Ed there looked bad. Seemed to get worse every year. A shame. Oneof the smartest people Reimer had met. Talked about religion, philosophy,business-when he talked. Sounded like some sort of professor.
But he wasn’t.
Reimer knew what he was. Yes, sir. It was a damn shame about him,something the old-timers at Half Moon Bay, those that knew, rarely talkedabout. Not to Ed’s face anyway. What good does talk do? What’s done is done.Reimer only wished to hell the guy wouldn’t come to him every time he wanted togo out there.
“How you making out with that twenty-eight-footer I put you on to?”Reimer tried not to sound obvious. “She was in pretty good shape when you boughther. Lapstrake with twin Mercs, wasn’t it?”
Keller nodded.
“Where you got her docked?”
He didn’t answer.
Reimer shrugged, replaced the fuel nozzle on the Shell pump. The clank-clankechoed in the morning stillness. The odor of gas wafted from the gas tanks’openings as he wiped the caps with a rag.
“All set,” Reimer said.
Keller stepped into the boat, clutching his package. Reimer untiedthe lines, climbed behind the wheel, adjusted his grease stained ballcap,scratched his stubble, and surveyed the Pacific. Fine morning. Fog was light.Season would begin soon.
“The usual place?” Reimer said.
Keller nodded and placed two one-hundred-dollar bills in Reimer’shand. It wasn’t necessary, Reimer had told him. But why argue? What good wouldit do? He turned the ignition key. The motor rumbled and he eased the throttleforward, leaving a white foamy wake to lap against the dock.
San Francisco’s skyline stretched across the starboard side, thespires of the Golden Gate jutting majestically through a blanket of fog as theymade their way to the Farallons. Reimer was born in San Francisco. His fatherhad earned a living running a charter to the gulf from Half Moon for whale andbird-watchers long before it was fashionable. Reimer loved the region, thePacific’s moods and hues, the taste of salt air. He glanced at Keller, his eyesfixed to the horizon. Looking for ghosts. No point in talking to him. Whycouldn’t he just say no to the man? Reimer shrugged and gave her a touch morethrottle, enjoying the wind in his face.
Reimer’s boat was a beauty. His mistress. A Searay Seville. Atwenty-one-footer. She had a cuddy cabin, a rebuilt V-6 170 horsepowerMercruiser. Glided like a dream
as they moved into the California current andcut across the coastal shipping lanes. It was upwelling season and he kept alookout for blooms of plankton. He could just make out the shape of the Farallonstwenty-odd miles away, slicing through the hazy mist like shark fins.
That’s where it happened. Out there.
Think of other things, Reimer told himself, like the work on histhree other charter boats waiting back at the marina. Just think of otherthings. He watched a trio of Dall’s porpoises leaping along port side. He tookmental stock of the gallery-he knew he’d be hungry by the time they arrived.They might make good time, the lack of wind made for a smooth surface, over thenavy’s submarine playground, which swept southeast of the islands. Reimer knewthe region, her history, her mysteries, and her secrets. He looked at Kelleragain. Ed there was a tragic story. Look at him. Sitting stonelike, clutchingthat package and staring at nothing. Somebody ought to tell him they are nevercoming back. Let go, friend, let go. How many years has it been? Let go.
Keller would never let go.
Staring at the churning wake, the white foam against the jadewaters, he heard them. He saw them.
Pierce. His eldest. Nine years old. Hair lifting in the wind.Squinting at the horizon, scanning the islands. Pierce. Quiet. Resolute. LikeKeller. The motor grumbling. Pierce gripping his seat with one hand. The otheraround his sister, Alisha Keller. Like her mother. Brilliant, beautiful,unyielding. Alisha. Six. Hugging Joshua. The baby. Three years old. The woodenboat. An old speedboat. The last rental. Hammering over the choppy water. Goingto spend the day alone looking for whales. Just him and the kids. Joan demandedit. “They have everything but a father.” He was furious. He’d juggled meetings.This would likely cost him contracts.
They started late in the afternoon. Had to stop for burgers beforethey would get in the boat. Couldn’t wait until they got to the islands to eatthe lunch Joan had packed. Wouldn’t wear the life jackets. “Babies wear them,”Pierce said. Josh crying when Keller put it on him. To hell with it. Let’s getthis over with.
Wouldn’t go out too far today, sir, squalls comin’, the kid at themarina telling him-the pimple-faced grease monkey giving advice to him. EdwardKeller, a self-made millionaire. Keller ignoring him, ramming the throttledown. Keller didn’t understand the buoys. Where is north? Damn. Couldn’t readthe chart. Hell with it, you could practically see the Farallones. One hundredfifty goddamn dollars. The boat was slow. He hated to waste money.
