He parted the reeds to see Grace bobbing face down in the water, unconscious, a pool of blood spreading around her. And she was sinking fast.
Jon hurdled in after her. Well, not exactly in – on. He galloped, full stride, running over the water toward her, but by the time he arrived, she had already slipped under the surface, disappearing.
Jon fell to his stomach – on the water – not floating – it was as if he were beyond buoyant – as if he were lying on solid ground. Truth was, he had never experienced what it was like to swim or even break the surface of water. There is one biblical account describing him wading into a river to be baptized by John the Baptist, but clearly, that account must’ve been exaggerated. In all likelihood, he was merely sprinkled on the forehead.
Jon plunged his arm into the water, as if he were breaking through drywall, coming up with a rotting corpse. He released it, gliding forward, his arm continuing to search.
It wasn’t long before he found her and lifted her to the surface, heading for dry land where he immediately began administering mouth to mouth. He could do this, he thought, he could save her. She wasn’t going to die.
Grace finally hacked phlegm and water into his face but she was really weak now due to the loss of blood. She gazed into Jon’s face, which seemed to double and triple, finally floating away in an endless prism before she passed out once again.
Pfft! A bullet whizzed by. Jon scooped Grace up and darted back into the forest, flying lead tracing his footsteps. It was only moments later that he exploded out onto the main cemetery grounds, moving as quickly as his legs could carry both of them, his arms trembling ferociously under the burden of Grace’s weight. This was becoming too difficult. He had to do something.
He spotted a row of stately tombs and waved his hand. One of them miraculously opened and he lunged inside, magically closing the door behind him. He laid Grace down between a pair of caskets. It was dark in there, but he recognized that she was purple now, barely breathing, her life slipping away. He gazed skyward and said…
“This is going to be a big one. I’m sorry, Mom.”
He waved his hand over her wound – and it disappeared. The blood, the wound, all of it. He opened his palm to reveal a mushroomed bullet. And even though she was safe now and her vital signs were stabilizing, she was still out cold.
Outside, Tony arrived on the scene. Flushed. Where did they go? He stood there for a moment, scanning the landscape. A groundskeeper’s voice called out to him from the darkness.
“I’ve called the police! They’re on their way!”
All the action and commotion apparently hadn’t gone unnoticed. Tony faded back into the grove, disappearing.
In the tomb, Jon heard the warning as well. He needed to get out of there too.
Everything has its own cosmic speed limit. Light, sound, and yes, even miracles. An elderly couple, one male, one female, sporting halos and fluffy wings, permanent fixtures on the local scene, sat by a misty pond, playing harps. Not the cheap plastic kind, these were high-end musical instruments.
Suddenly, the area began to tremble violently, mimicking the force of a major earthquake. It took all the elderly couple could do to hang on.
“My goodness. I’ve not seen it shake this pugnaciously since the CEO’s son visited Dogflat Hollow back in the day.” the elderly male said.
“Probably Lourdes again.”
Most people are aware that Lourdes is a pilgrimage site in France that’s visited by millions each year, many of whom are seeking miraculous forms of physical renewal. It’s believed by the faithful, that drinking or bathing in the natural spring available at the site can and has cured many ailments that are and were impossible to remedy via available means of modern medicine. Most people are unaware, however, that Lourdes is so popular, that in all of France, only Paris boasts more hotels.
“Good heavens. If it’s Lourdes, it must be an entire leper colony this time.” responded the elderly male as the area continued to convulse even more turbulently now, upending both of them violently from their seats.
It was rattling just as ferociously in the mirrored room. Virginia was being bounced around from mirror to mirror but somehow managed to remain on her feet. Finally, after a long moment, the shaking abruptly came to an end.
“That’s it. I’m getting to the bottom of this right now.” the CEO exclaimed. He was clearly perturbed now. Fed up.
“Sure. Just walk out on me again. Who cares about One-Night-Stand-Virginia.”
“Oh, for my sake. Not now.”
“Not now, not ever, right? I’ve just been a surrogate to you. One time and you send me packing. Have you any idea how difficult it was for me? No money, no prospects, and then burdened with your child. Not once did you ever help either. All those years of going hungry and you never thought to send a little manna.”
Virginia began to sob. This charade of hers may have begun as a ruse, but she was summoning real feelings now. The memories hurt.
The CEO remained quiet for a moment. Perhaps he was studying her. Her serious eyes, her essentially provincial face. Seen in the right light, from the right angle, she was very pretty.
“Come now.” the CEO finally said, breaking the silence, a new sweetness to his voice. “I chose you because I recognized that, compared with all the others, you’d make the best mother for our son. And just look at how he turned out. I am so proud of both of you. And despite what you think, I was always there watching over you. My name was Jon.”
Virginia considered his words for a moment, remembering how Jon, even as a toddler, always managed to find a way to comfort her. As he grew, he always found ways to bring in extra money for food and clothing to support his family. He never let her down. Never.
“Hold me.” Virginia said, her eyes still tearing but she was no longer sobbing.
Galaxies of light branched out from every mirror, encircling her. She smiled, contented.
“Tighter. Don’t let go.”
A few lesser-known, yet interesting particulars about Los Angeles Airport (LAX), include the following. There’s a shooting range there to help LAX police maintain their firearms skills. There are always fourteen firefighters on duty – 14 – and that number never varies. On the Fourth of July, pilots are instructed to steepen their takeoffs and landings in order to avoid sporadic gunfire from holiday celebrants. And there’s VIP parking, unavailable to the general public, and commonly used only by very important people.
Rogers pulled up and parked in one such area. Briefcase in hand, he swung open his door, about to exit his vehicle, when Atiu materialized out of nowhere and shoved him back in, climbing in after him. The passenger door also swung open. LaPomme hopped in, sandwiching Rogers in the middle.
If one were standing outside looking in, one wouldn’t be able to hear much of what was being said because Rogers was driving a high-end luxury sedan, the type that forbade ambient noise, but because inordinately tinted windows are illegal in California, one would clearly see that Rogers was taking a beating.
LaPomme and Atiu exited with the briefcase, leaving Rogers behind, slumped up against the dashboard, bloody and unconscious. They both calmly crossed for their vehicle parked nearby. LaPomme lit a cigarette, exhaling luxuriously.
Pumpkin Eater had been working hard all day tidying up the apartment. He’d thrown out every stick of furniture that was beyond repair and jerry-rigged everything else. Now, he was sweeping up as Jon entered, completely fatigued, carrying an unconscious Grace in his arms, both of them disheveled, mud-covered, cut and bruised.
“Tumbling walls of Jericho!” Pumpkin Eater screeched.
“Help me.”
Pumpkin Eater helped Jon carry Grace over to the bed, easing her down onto the mattress. Jon began disclosing the series of events that led to this moment.
Tony sat in his car, frozen in shock, staring into the open duffel bag on his lap. Ten thousand portraits of Benjamin Franklin were staring back. He found his cell phone and dialed Fusco.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Is it done?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of? She got away?”
“I hit her. Square in the chest. No way she survived.”
“Where is she?”
“That’s the thing. The guy she was with, he interfered. Dragged her somewhere, I lost them.”
“Jesus Christ. Go back.”
“I can’t. Somebody called the cops.”
“Did you get the shopping bag?”
“Yeah. Just clothes, I mean, just old clothes. Maybe she was planning on dropping them off at a donation center or something.”
“Where are you?”
“Culver City, on Slauson, about a half mile west of Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery. I can’t believe how clear you sound, these gadgets are amazing.”
“Okay, listen to me. I want you to drive over to her place and see if she’s there. Check the building across the street too.”
“There’s no way she’s there. I shot her. Bad. If she’s not dead yet, she’s gonna need emergency care.”
“Just do it. I’ll have Rocco scout the emergency rooms, keep an ear out myself on the scanners from here.”
“Okay. Listen, Dad, there’s something else. About what you said earlier. About us maybe having to leave town and go someplace far. Maybe we should just split up and go our separate ways.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You’re collecting welfare, you haven’t worked a day in your life.”
“I’m serious. I’m going it alone.”
“We’ll talk about this later.”
Fusco hung up, unsettled. Suddenly, he didn’t trust Tony. Did Tony find something valuable in that shopping bag? Or maybe Grace paid him off. Something was very wrong and the thought of having to kill Tony as well crept into Fusco’s mind.
Pumpkin Eater was shaking his head, up to speed now. Except this time, there was no admonishing or reprimanding. Pumpkin Eater was on Jon’s side, there to help. Grace was still completely comatose.
There was also a pile of wood shavings on the floor because Jon had been whittling away on a piece of furniture wood as he brought Pumpkin Eater up to speed. Jon had fashioned a rose with a perfect leafy stem, complete with thorns. An exact replica of Grace’s tattoo.
Pumpkin Eater dug into Grace’s pocket and came up with her apartment key.
“I had to throw out all the food because it was ruined. Why don’t you clean yourself up, take my card and go pick us up a few items. You won’t need I.D.” Pumpkin Eater said.
“You go, I’ll stay here with her.”
“Somebody has to walk her dog, its been holding it in all day. I’d ask you to do it, but you might not make it back.”
“True.”
Jon took the card as Grace unexpectedly bolted awake, breathless, screaming.
“No! No!”
“Shhh. It’s okay, you’re safe.” Jon said, trying to comfort her.
She blinked into his face, not really seeing it.
“I’ve been shot.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
She examined her chest as she said that, completely bewildered all of a sudden because her wound was gone. Yes, she was filthy, but there was no evidence of a massive bloodstain.
“But there was a lot of blood and I ran and… it was so real… was it only a nightmare? You were there. You were trying to save me.”
She found his face – bruised and battered itself, drops of dried blood speckling his cheeks. Paralyzed, not knowing what to make of any of this, she stared deeply into his enormous solemn eyes for a long moment. As if she were trying to consult his very soul.
“Who are you?” Grace asked.
“You don’t remember?”
“No, I mean, who are you?”
“I’m a hopeless optimist.”
He took her hand, placing the wooden rose in her palm. She clutched it, looking up at him, transfixed, like a wide-eyed child. She never voiced it, but it was at that moment that she knew she’d fallen in love with him. The feelings were always there on the surface from the beginning for some reason, but they were deep and absolutely real now.
“I should get going.” Pumpkin Eater announced.
“He’s going to walk your dog. I’m going to clean up and go out to get us some food. Will you be OK here alone?”
She nodded.
“Get pumpkin seeds. They’re on sale.” Pumpkin Eater said as he exited.
Grace was transfixed on the wooden rose, still lying in bed, still trying to gather herself. Plenty of time had passed and she was eagerly awaiting the door to open and Jon to step in. The door did open. But it was Tony that stepped in, carrying the duffel bag. He’d thought about leaving it in the trunk of his car, but this was a terrible neighborhood. He wanted it close.
Tony was surprised to see Grace lying there, completely unscathed. He knew he’d shot her, so where was the blood?
“You have been one royal pain in the ass, lady.”
Grace’s eyes were saucers because she recognized the duffel bag.
“Hey, that’s mine.”
Tony trained his gun on her, all business now. Grace had one second to live.
Down below, Jon was just entering his apartment building, toting groceries, when…
BAM!
…he heard a gunshot ring out upstairs. He shifted gears, picking up the pace, moving as quickly as his legs would carry him. He entered his apartment about thirty seconds later to see a body lying there in the middle of the room, already working on becoming biodegradable.
He knelt, flinging back the head, staring into Tony’s contorted open-eyed grimace. He had been shot in the back.
Jon scanned the room, asking the obvious. Where was Grace? Only the wooden rose remained, as if it had been discarded on the floor.
“Freeze, asshole!”
Jon turned toward the door and stared into the business end of a snub-nosed .38 caliber police issue pistol. Fusco was standing there, feet braced in a shooter’s posture. He had decided to follow Tony and get to the bottom of things and gasped when he saw him lying there, dead.
Pumpkin Eater arrived a few seconds later from walking Grace’s dog, materializing right behind Fusco.
“Fallen epistles of Ezekiel!”
Fusco spun, eyes glazed. A madman now.
“Get back!”
But it wasn’t only Pumpkin Eater standing there anymore. Other apartment dwellers were gathering, choking the hallway.
“Clear the area! This is a police matter!” Fusco shouted, flashing his badge and pointing his gun into the crowd threateningly.
Everyone backed away, but they never really left. Fusco realized that, which is probably why he didn’t shoot Jon right there, right then. Instead, he ordered Jon to turn around and put his hands on his head before cuffing him.
“Where’s the whore?” Fusco snarled.
“She’s not a bad person. I don’t know why her soul is so stained, but she’s not—”
“Shut up!”
Fusco smacked Jon with the butt end of his gun, roughing him up further with a punch to the kidney, his elbow inadvertently knocking Buddy’s satchel to the floor, spilling out the Polaroid camera near the front door and displacing a few photos. Fusco barked out at the crowd, never looking at them, warning everyone to stay away, not to enter the apartment – it was a crime scene.
“I’m going to crucify you.” Fusco told Jon as he smacked him again.
Pumpkin Eater just stood there at the entrance to the apartment for a moment, unsure of what to do next. He remembered that Buddy used to be a cop, maybe Buddy could help, maybe Buddy would know what to do. He stooped to retrieve Buddy’s Polaroid, his thumb accidentally pressing against a photo - Grace’s photo – the one Buddy snapped of her after she climbed off the bus. Pumpkin Eater instantly emitted a muffled shriek.
“Rejected daugh
ter of Beersheba!”
Pumpkin Eater fled the scene before stopping to examine the photo some more – fingering Grace’s image – LaPomme’s image that was pictured there also in the ad on the side of the bus that served as backdrop – gathering information as if it were a strand of hair. He had never touched a photograph before, never knew this was possible. And, unlike a strand of hair, a photo remained cool to the touch. He now knew why Grace’s soul was so dark.
Grace was sitting in the passenger seat of Rogers’ car, not a luxury sedan this time, an old jalopy. Her hands trembled as she clutched the duffel bag. She was bloody too, but it wasn’t her blood. An 8x10 glossy of Tony was on her lap. Rogers was in the driver’s seat.
“Are you all right?” Rogers asked.
“Do I look all right to you? Look at me, I’m wearing this guy’s intestines.”
“Would you rather they were yours?”
Rogers had suspected that Fusco might’ve been involved in Foster’s murder all along so he had investigated him and found that he had two sons who had previously been in trouble with the law. Serious infractions, including an aggravated assault charge where they were both accused of having thrown a Russian immigrant off a bridge that spanned a ravine, breaking both of his legs.
The Russian testified that Tony and Rocco accosted him because they overhead him speaking in a foreign language and it irritated them. Tony and Rocco managed to plea bargain down to misdemeanor assault, arguing that the immigrant slipped and fell over the railing as he was attempting to flee – they had only threatened him and never actually physically touched him. They both received two years probation.
Rogers was curious about whether Grace could positively identify them as the men who tried to kill her, but that’s not why he was here.
Rogers dropped another 8x10 glossy – of Rocco this time – on her lap, right beside Tony’s.
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s the other one.” Grace admitted.
“Fusco’s youngest. Those intestines you’re wearing belonged to his eldest.”
The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow Page 10
