by Rick Mofina
“Yes ma’am. Seems he got himself pinned under a pileof junk. Luckily there was a big old bag of dog cereal I left there. My old dogFred died awhile ago.” Keller saw little traffic in the corner of the lot.“This fella’s got a lot of spark. He tore into the cereal, kept himself alive.Seems like a real nice little guy and he’s no worse for wear.”
Gabrielle gave Jackson a bone-crushing hug.
“Thanks for letting me in on the surprise, Mr.Jenkins. I better get back now. It’s going to be hard waiting for my birthday,but I promise to keep our secret.”
Keller didn’t move. He produced a worn copy ofJackson’s missing-reward poster the Nunns had put up weeks ago.
“Your notice here says there’s a reward?”
“Yes. Fifty dollars. It’s at home at my house.”
Keller thought. “Well since Jackson’s return is nosurprise anymore I might as well get my reward. What the heck?”
Gabrielle didn’t understand.
“But it’s at my house and Dad and Ryan went to CoitTower.”
“I’m sorry, Gabrielle, I forgot to tell you that yourdad was meeting me at your house. I told you I know him from the station.”
But wasn’t this supposed to be a surprise?
“Look, we’ll drive to your place, tell your dad aboutmy screw-up. It will be all right, don’t worry. Paul will get a laugh. I’malways messing up at the station. Then I’ll get my reward and your dad willdrive you back to the party here.”
Gabrielle looked toward the carousel.
“You were telling the truth about the reward, weren’tyou?”
She nodded, hugging Jackson to her chest.
“I want to pick it up now because I’m going out oftown on business tonight and I’ll be gone for a long time.”
Keller slammed his door, started the engine,surprising Gabrielle, flooding her mind with confusion. Before she knew whatwas happening, the truck rolled out of the lot and down Kezer Drive.
“This will only take a second. You’re safe with me.”
“But I just don’t know.” In a whisper, more to herselfthan to Keller, Gabrielle said, “I don’t want to get into trouble.” She buriedher face in Jackson’s neck, squeezing him until he yelped. She caressed him asthey left Golden Gate Park.
I don’t want to get into trouble.
THIRTY
“Gabrielle!”
All of the saliva in Nancy Nunn’s mouth dried up asfear slithered down her throat.
“GABRIELLE!”
Nancy came out of the washroom with Rhonda, Tracey,and Millie expecting to find Gabrielle at the entrance. But she wasn’t there.She was gone.
Again Nancy took a speed-of-light inventory of thearea. No sign of Gabrielle. Nothing.
“Maybe she went to the Troll Bridge, Mrs. Nunn?”Tracey said.
“Maybe she went to see the others?” Millie said.
Not my kid. My kid knows better to wander from me likethis.
Nancy grabbed Millie’s hand, then Rhonda’s. She madeTracey jumped when she ordered her to take Rhonda’s free hand. Nancy’sterrified heart was on the verge of bursting through her chest. She scoured thecarousel. The organ was playing a funeral march, the revolving animals mockingher with accusing silence.
Why weren’t you watching your child?
“Mrs. Nunn, you’re squeezing my hand too tight. Ithurts!”
Nancy questioned people nearby. “Have you seen alittle girl in a flowered dress?”
Puzzled stares. Heads shaking.
“She was standing here! You must have seen her!”
Eyes stared at her as if she were insane.
“My little girl is missing, somebody help me please!”
“Nancy, what’s going on?” It was Wendy Sloan. Worried.
Her group of girls huddled around Nancy and the others.Smiles dying on their faces.
“Nancy!”
“G-Gabrielle’s gone.”
“What?”
“She’s missing. We were in the washroom together. Shewandered out ahead of us. A few seconds ahead. She’s gone. Wendy, I don’tknow-“
“Nancy, she can’t have gone far.”
“I–I don’t…I should have been watching. If anything.Oh God.”
“Stop it.” Wendy grabbed Nancy’s shoulders. “We’llfind-“
Two teenage girls stood awkwardly next to Nancy,uncomfortable, not comprehending exactly what was happening.
“We saw a little girl in a flowered dress near thewashroom.”
“Where is she?” Nancy barked.
One of the girls flinched.
“She was talking to a man-“
Nancy’s stomach heaved. “Where did she go! Where!”
“Well, I think-“
“Hurry up!” Nancy’s voice was breaking.
“The man went that way.” One of the girls’ pointedtoward the parking lot. “Then the little girl followed him. Two minutes ago.”
Nancy jumped as if something had exploded under herfeet, running to the parking lot. A man wearing a green John Deere ball cap, inhis early seventies, was shutting the driver’s door on his camper.
“Please help me. My little girl’s missing. She camethis way, wearing a flowered dress. Have you seen her?”
“I don’t think so. We just got here, right, Mother?”
Seeing Nancy distraught, the white-haired woman on theother side of the camper approached her and took her arm.
“What’s wrong, dear?”
“My daughter’s been abducted. A man led her this way afew minutes ago. Oh, help me!”
“Arthur, quick, find a policeman!”
The man headed dutifully to a pay phone.
Nancy searched parked cars, frantically screamingGabrielle’s name. The woman followed helplessly. Across the lot, a tall,well-dressed man stepped from a Mercedes and jogged to Nancy.
“Lady, what’s wrong?”
“My daughter’s been abducted by a man who brought herthis way. Please, have you seen her?”
“I did see a little girl walking around here a fewminutes ago.”
“Yes!”
“Hair braided, her dress kind of pinkish?”
“That’s her! Where did she go? Tell me, please!”
He looked intently over Nancy’s head at the lot andKezar Drive. He had been in his car, talking business over his phone.
“I saw the little girl talking to a man at a batteredold pickup truck. There was a little blond dog inside the truck.”
“What?”
Nancy covered her mouth with both hands, her mindreeling with a thousand horrors. Jackson. Jackson was a little blond dog.Remembering Paul believing Jackson didn’t run away. Somebody stole him. I don’tknow why but I know for damn sure he didn’t run away.
Apprehension swept over the man’s face as he steeledhimself.
“She got into the truck with the man and he droveoff.”
Nancy’s head spun. The woman caught her, steadyingher.
The man realized he could do something. “I’ve got aphone. I’ll call 9-1-1! I’ll drive around after the truck, lady, wait here!”
Nancy fell to her knees, seeing nothing, hearingnothing, feeling nothing, not even the strange older woman who’s arms held herso tightly they kept her from falling off the earth.
THIRTY-ONE
Standing at the living room window of her stucco bungalow, Eva Blair was curious about thestrange truck that had stopped in front of the Walker place across the street.Nobody got out of the truck. The engine was idling. Looked like a man and-Evacould just make out a little head-a child. A bearded man talking, no, arguing,with a child. It was none of her business. She was being an old busybody.
But something strange was going on.
Eva could just make out part of the truck’s rearplate. California. “B” or “8” or “E”. It was a battered old pickup. A Ford,according to the tailgate. The man seemed angry. There was a glint of metal inthe cab. A knife? Did the man have a knife? Goodness! What in the world w
as hedoing? Now he was tossing something out the window. She should call the police.The truck was filthy, neglected, a disgrace.
The engine growled and the truck sped away.
An ominous feeling came over Eva and she decided, forgood measure, to jot down what she could remember of the truck. She slipped onher bifocals, left her house by the front door, and started across the streettoward the spot where the truck had stopped. Something was on the sidewalk.
Eva gasped. A mound. A small, fluffy, heap of…hair.Human hair, beautiful chestnut hair. She bent over to examine it closely,gasping before hurrying back to her house to call the police.
The hair was dotted with fresh blood.
THIRTY-TWO
God be praised .
Keller had left Golden Gate Park without a hitch.Gabrielle was as quiet as a lamb, hugging her pathetic mutt.
“You are a radiant Angel.” He could not take his eyesfrom her.
“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.”
Keller had been checking his rearview mirror every fewseconds since they left the park. No hint of trouble. Time to shift things intohigh gear. “Say, Gabrielle, it’s pretty hot. Want a soda?”
“Yes, please!”
Keller fished through a canvass knapsack behind theseat, producing a can. “I’ll open it for you.”
“Thank you.” Gabrielle took the can from him, gulped ahuge swallow. It was cold. She let Jackson lick some from her hand. “Baddoggie.” She wagged a warning finger at him. “Don’t you ever run away from meagain!”
“I bet you believe in God, say your prayers everynight?”
She nodded as the truck jerked over a pothole.
“Goodness. You spilled some on your dress. We’ll haveto stop so I can clean it for you.”
Gabrielle looked at her dress and saw no stain. “Idon’t think I spilled any, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Yes, you did. I’ll get it for you, as soon as I finda safe place to stop. Up there looks good.”
Keller spotted a house with a FOR SALE sign. It lookedempty. Neighborhood was quiet. He had to do this now, couldn’t wait any longer.It was still several miles to Wintergreen Heights. He stopped in front of thehouse and left the engine running.
“I really didn’t spill any, Mr. Jenkins. Honest. Ilooked.”
“You spilled some down your chin.” Keller grunted,reaching into the knapsack and pulling out a plastic bag with a damp face clothinside, reeking of medicine.
Gabrielle touched her chin. It was dry, but before shecould do anything, the stinky wet cloth was over her mouth, forcing her tobreathe through her nose. She struggled, kicked, and tried to scream. Jacksonbarked. Gabrielle dropped her Coke. It spilled and hissed on the floor. Kellerheld the cloth firmly against her face, staring into her fluttering eyes as shefell asleep.
Jackson barked fiercely.
“Shut up!” Keller said, removing Gabrielle’s dress andleotards, stuffing them into the knapsack. Rummaging in the pack, he pulled outa pair of child’s shorts and a Forty-niners’ T-shirt. In seconds, he hadslipped them on Gabrielle, along with a ball cap.
Then he pulled a pair of scissors from the knapsack,leaned Gabrielle forward, and began snipping off her chestnut braids.
The dog growled, leaping at Keller, biting at hishands. Damn! Keller caught his forefinger between the razor-sharp blades, andmost of the hair in his hand went out the window. The wound was deep.
Damn it!
At that instant, Keller saw an old woman watching fromher living room. What did she see?
Keller stomped on the gas, the engine roared, tirespeeled, stones flew in anger. How could he have been so careless! He poundedthe steering wheel, driving his rage like a rocket. Try to relax.
His heart thumped. It was happening. As it had beenprophesied. To the ignorant, the girl was a little boy who’d fallen asleep. Buthe knew the truth. The Divine Truth.
Slow down to the limit before you attract moreattention, he told himself. Come on. The old woman saw nothing. What was thereto see from her angle across the wide street? Nothing. She saw nothing: a manstopping to look at a house that was for sale. Nothing.
But the hair? What if she called the police?
Was he doubting his mission? His revelation?
He was cleansed in the light of the Lord. He mustnever cease believing he was blessed. That’s right. He had put more than adozen blocks behind him now and was beginning to relax, focusing on his routeto Wintergreen. The angel was sleeping. Good. Keller looked at the dog. Themutt could lead the police to him. He could sacrifice it with the scissors. Hecould it right now. He could pull into a back alley. It would take threeseconds, then he-
Traffic had come to a dead halt. The rear bumper ofthe Honda in front of Keller rushed at him. He hit the brakes in time to avoidcrashing. The two lanes ahead were merging into one. Cars inching along. What washappening? He saw a flash of red emergency lights.
Police! A roadblock?
Keller’s tongue swelled. He began sweating. Therearview mirror reflected a clogged river of vehicles, a virtual parking lot.He could try escaping by driving along the sidewalk. No, that would guarantee apursuit.
He was trapped. Keller squeezed the wheel. No. Notthis way.
You promised to help me. Do not forsake me.
The Angel was sleeping.
“Got the number two song in the Bay Area coming up,but this just in from the newsroom.” The radio in the convertible VW Golfcreeping alongside Keller was cranked to distortion. The young redhead alonebehind the wheel was oblivious as she puffed on her cigarette. “A five-year-oldgirl was reportedly abducted less than thirty minutes ago from the children’splayground at Golden Gate Park. Her name is Gabrielle Nunn. She has brown,braided hair and is wearing a flowered dress. Police say she may have beentaken by a man.” The radio faded away.
No. Not this way. Stay calm. He reached under the seatbetween his legs for the Smith amp; Wesson, purchased last year from a crackdealer in the Mission.
Numbers filed. Untraceable, like the wind, my man. TwoC’s.
Keller slipped the gun casually under his left leg. Hethought of the phony license he got on the street, along with fake birthcertificates, credit cards, library cards. When he required it, he could beanybody he wanted. God will provide, his father would say.
Ahead, a charter bus belched black smoke, its bigdiesel rattled as it crawled, clearing a line of sight. Keller first saw anSFPD black-and-white blocking one lane, then another. Then the ambulance and amangled car flipped on its roof. He saw the firefighters with the jaws-of-lifeclattering like a ravenous metal-eater to get at the bloodied person trappedinside. An accident. Okay. Keller sighed.
Suddenly a cop stood before him on the road, directingtraffic.
“You!” The officer pointed at him. His motorcycle wasnearby. A Harley Davidson. Impossible to outrun. He was an imposing trafficbull in dark aviator glasses, leather jacket, leather boots, and a leatherutility belt with a holstered gun.
“Hold it right there!”
Keller eyed the officer as he approached.
Not this way. He refused to let it end here. He feltthe hard barrel of the gun under his leg, and kept both hands on the wheel. Thecopy made leathery squeaks as he walked. His stern face telegraphed a clearmessage: Do not fuck with me, sir.
The dog barked and Gabrielle stirred. Her eyelidsflickered. Do not forsake me. A droplet of sweat rolled down Keller’s backbetween his shoulder blades.
“What’s the problem, officer?”
“Sir, are you aware your left front tire isunderinflated?”
“No, I wasn’t aware.”
Just then the officer’s portable radio crackled withsomething unclear. He snatched it, and requested a repeat of the transmission.Keller slid his hand under his left leg, fingering the gun.
I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.
Again, the officer could not make out the radiomessage.
“Been crapping out like this all day,” he complained,cursing city bureaucrats. “Sor
ry, sir. Get that tire pumped.”
“No trouble, officer.”
The cop gave Keller a polite salute and waved himthrough.
It went according to his prayers. According to theprophesy. Thank God! Praise Him! He gazed upon the sleeping Angel. Behold theSeraph. Behold Gabriel. God’s messenger now belonged to him.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.
THIRTY-THREE
The highway curled breathtakingly close to the cliff edges above the Pacific, its crestingcobalt waves pummeling the rocks while embracing the beaches below.
The view soothed Sydowski whenever he drove toPacifica and today he needed soothing. His visit with his old man left him withsouvenirs. He flipped down the visor mirror again. The cuts on his freshlyshaved face had coagulated. He winced, pulling at the bits of tissue paper. Thethings a son will do to make his old man happy.
Sydowski had found his father sitting on his bed inhis shoebox bungalow at Sea Breeze Villas, staring sadly at the Pacific.
“What’s the matter Pop?” he asked in Polish.
“They won’t let me cut hair anymore. They say I’m tooold.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“Is that so? Where’s your kit?”
“The old whore took it.”
“Pop, don’t call Mrs. Doran an old whore.”
“Well, she’s not a young one.”
Sydowski marched to the carpeted, lilac-scented officeof Mrs. Doran, Sea Breeze’s chief administrator. A kind, attractive woman inher fifties, Elsa Doran managed her “camp for golden kids” with the sternnessof a drill sergeant. Always happy to see Sydowski, her eyes sparkled and sheloved calling him “Inspector.” But the sparkle vanished when he asked her forhis old man’s barber’s kit.
“Mr. Sydowski, your father’s senility is a concern. Ican’t allow him to cut hair and give straight-razor shaves. He could injuresomeone. We’d be sued.”
Sydowski made it clear to Elsa Doran that he would notlose an argument with her over his father’s scissors and razor.
“Give me his kit, or I pull him out.”
She sighed, and retrieved the kit from a locked deskdrawer. He thanked her and returned to his old man.
