by Keri Lake
Here is where the real secrets lie.
I punch in the code my father made me privy to a number of times, particularly when he went out of town, thinking he might not come back. The key clicks, and I open the safe to a pile of documents inside. All of his financials, as well as some stacks of cash that I don’t bother to take. Blood money. Makes me sick to think how many people probably offered up their lives for this cash.
Beneath the papers and cash is a stack of binders, in which Val used to clip spreadsheets for all his dealings. If the FBI ever found these books, they’d have the names of just about every criminal in New York, which is ultimately what made Val a target.
I drag my finger down a list of names, but only recognize a few, like Val’s father and her older brothers. I stop on McConnell, noting a payment of six grand, which repeats on the next page for the following month. Mac’s mother, I’m guessing.
Dozens of names make up his payroll, not a single one offering a clue into this white goat. He could be any one of the men on this list.
Takes about a half hour for me to search the other binders, which give just as little insight, before I decide these books are useless to me.
With a huff, I replace all of them back into the safe, closing it up beneath the panel, and set the boxes and golf equipment back as I found it. At some point, the state will have to go through all his things, unless Mac decides to take that upon himself. Won’t be me, if I can help it.
On the way to my car, the early winter breeze tickles the back of my neck as old instincts kick in, and I look around the quiet neighborhood.
Feeling eyes watching me, I glance back to the house, but no one stands in my father’s bedroom window. After another sweep of the neighborhood, I slip into my vehicle, heading back toward downtown Manhattan.
20
DAMON
A green light flicks on when I slip my keycard in the slot to unlock my hotel room, and I pause before taking a step inside. Call it old habits dying hard, but this is the second time I’ve gotten a sense that someone is watching me.
Carefully sliding the knife from its holster tucked beneath my coat, I let the tenebrous room swallow me as I make my way inside, eyes scanning in what little glow slips through the cracked door behind me, before I flick on the light to find a familiar face sitting in the chair opposite the bed.
He tips his bald head, smoke from his cigar climbing toward the ceiling. Val’s oldest brother, Andrea, must be pushing fifty now, his face carrying a little more chin than the last time I saw him.
A click behind me signals the door closing, and at the sight of the second familiar face, I grip the knife tight, muscles taut and ready to attack. The youngest brother, Cristian, hasn’t changed much. Still tall and gangly, but no less intimidating when pissed off.
“Well, look what the fucking wind blew in,” Andrea says, while Cristian stands guard at the door. “I didn’t believe the rumors that you were back in town. But here you are.” His deep brown eyes match his sister’s, eyes that once looked at me as a friend. Instead, they’re filled with the kind of venom that tells me I won’t be leaving this hotel room alive.
Andrea pushes up from his chair, while the youngest closes in from behind, the two of them caging me in the narrow hallway. “You had some business with your father, as I understand.”
“I did.”
“He’s alive, then?” Andrea slips a pair of brass knuckles over his gloved hand and puts his cigar out in the half glass of water I left on the dresser this morning.
I watch every move, choosing my words carefully, my whole body poised in defense. “Not for long.”
“Good. One less to kill.”
“You honestly think I was capable of killing her? Ever?”
Brows winged up, he shrugs. “I don’t know. And I don’t care. Let’s get this over with.”
“Isabella?”
At my question, I catch a flicker of pain dance across his face. If anyone in the world loved my daughter near as much as I did, it was Val’s brothers.
“All I know is, they’re dead. And you’re alive.” He lurches toward me, but when I pull the knife from beneath my coat, he stops short and shakes his head. “Savios carrying knives now. ‘The fuck’s the world coming to?”
“I came here to kill my father.” My hand is trembling, which tells me years of priesthood has reconnected me to some small measure of my humanity again. Andrea catches it, too, judging by his subtle glance toward my hand still holding the knife. “I planned to slit his throat.”
“And?” Only a slight air of intrigue colors his otherwise bored tone.
“Vinnie killed them.”
“Vinnie worked for your father. This conversation is getting old.”
“He skipped out with ten grand from my father.”
Lip snarled in disgust, he shakes his head. “That’s all my sister’s life was worth to you? Ten grand?”
“He was paid to kill someone else. Goes by El Cabro Blanco. You heard of him?”
I catch a brief exchange between Andrea and Cristian, before they look back to me.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“What would he want with my sister?” The clench of his teeth betrays his emotionless face.
“All I know is Val planned to testify in court. She’d met with some lawyers.”
Andrea’s eyes flutter shut, and he drags his hand down his face, finally setting my muscles at ease. “Fuck.”
“Who is this guy?”
Letting out a huff, Andrea retreats back toward his chair and lights up another cigar, spitting the clipped end of it onto the floor before taking a puff. Cristian plops down at the end of the bed, rubbing his hand over his skull.
“What’s his story?” I ask again, trying to decipher their body language, which seems uncharacteristically defeated.
“Locals call him the White Goat. Drug trafficker.” Andrea tips his head back against the chair and exhales hard through his nose. “’The fuck was she thinking?”
“Where do I find him?”
“You don’t.”
“He slaughtered my family.”
“And my sister. But I’ve no intentions of walking into the mouth of hell. Not when I have my own family to think about.”
Cristian shoots to his feet, his hands balled into tight fists at his side. “I’ll do it. For Val.”
With a roll of his eyes, Andrea shakes his head. “You might as well put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. It’d be a much faster and merciful death.”
“She’s my sis—”
“Sit your fucking ass down. You’re not going anywhere,” Andrea snaps.
After a lengthy challenging stare, Cristian concedes and takes a seat.
“Tell me where to find him.” My voice is far more resolute than Cristian’s.
“No. Go home, Anthony.” It’s strange hearing someone call me by my old name. For a brief moment, I feel exposed and vulnerable all over again. “Do what you been doing for the last few years. Don’t come back here.” Once again, he rises to his feet, and signals for Cristian to follow after him, but I step in front of Andrea.
“Do you have any idea how much blood was on those sheets?” Tears swell in my eyes, and I scowl to keep my emotions in check. “They told me Isabella was alive when Vinnie finished off Val.”
His jaw shifts in anger, and he snaps his head away to keep from showing the tears I see in his eyes, too. “If I hadn’t already gotten word he was dead ...”
“He was paid. By someone who gets to walk free and clear of his crimes. Tell me where to find El Cabro Blanco.”
“I don’t know.” He rolls his head against his shoulders and sniffs. “He has operations in Calexico, at the border. That’s all I know.”
“It’s a start.”
“You go there, you ain’t coming back.”
“If I don’t, their killer walks free.”
“You won’t find him before he finds you. But I wish you well, anyway.” He pats my shou
lder as he passes, and Cristian does the same, offering a sympathetic smile on the way.
“Andrea,” I say, before he exits the room. “Did you honestly think I could hurt them?”
He doesn’t even take a moment to contemplate. “No,” he answers, which is likely the reason I wasn’t dead before my key hit the lock.
The two of them leave, closing me in the small and suffocating hotel room. My first thought is Ivy. Convincing her to stay back from this trip was hard, but nothing compared to how I suspect she’ll take the news that I’m planning to go to Calexico, with no intentions of returning.
Running both hands through my hair, I drag my palms over my face and exhale hard against my skin. What the hell am I doing? What am I thinking?
I fall onto the foot of the bed beside me, which sits across from the oversized mirror above the dresser. Dark circles shadow the bloodshot eyes in my reflection, proof that I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a week.
It took me years to lay my wife and daughter fully to rest, and here I am, tearing open the wound for the pure sadistic joy of it. I killed the man who physically murdered my wife and daughter. I avenged them. Going after what essentially sounds like a ghost will only drum up old enemies.
My mind drifts to the day, at just fifteen years old, when I showed up at Our Lady of Sorrows after sleepless nights, lost in the fantasy of killing my mother’s murderer. The church has always been a source of opposition to my otherwise irrational thoughts. It was the first place I stumbled into after my wife and daughter died, as well. However, I remember, when I was a young boy, Father Vicio sat quietly, listening to my confession, my vow to avenge my mother.
I remember his imparted words with such vivid clarity, it’s as if he’s speaking them to me now: Wrath is a terrible poison, Son. A wound that festers and bleeds, until all that's left is the putrid stench of death.
Killing this goat will only bring more pain and suffering, and I won’t risk Ivy becoming a target as a consequence.
From the small fridge, I grab a fifth of whiskey and pop open the cap. Warm liquor coats the flames burning inside of me, numbing them for the cool buzz of the alcohol, and the hurricane of thoughts inside my head somehow settle on the simple task of returning back to California. Reclaiming the life I’ve worked hard to build in the aftermath of Val and Isabella.
Perhaps I can start over with Ivy. She’s young and vibrant and makes it exceptionally difficult to keep my hands off her.
Perhaps God sent me here for a reason—to show me that life is far too short and fragile to waste on wrath that will never be sated.
My father spent his entire life hunting down his enemies, and now spends his final moments guarded by the only person he can trust in this world.
I don’t want that to be me someday.
The throbbing inside my skull intensifies, and on a new wave of pain, I screw my eyes shut and sit up in bed, the heel of my hand making a futile attempt to soothe the ache at my temples. Alcohol flows thick in my veins, as the dark room spins in my periphery, before my vision lands on a figure standing in the corner. I squint and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand that still clutches the fifth of whiskey.
“Are you having a nightmare, Daddy?” Isabella’s soft voice soothes me like a warm glass of milk laced with poison.
She isn’t real.
“You’re not really here.” I frown to hold back the tears, kicking myself back against the wall behind me. “You’re not real.”
Through my frantic attempt to wake myself up from this torment, I see her step closer. The nightgown she wears is the same one she wore in the hospital during her last bout of chemotherapy.
“Daddy? I don’t want you to go after that Goat man.”
My frown deepens, the confusion muddling my brain, as I try to decipher whether, or not, I’m awake, or asleep. My heart prods me to reach out for her and not let go, but my instincts don’t dare try to touch her.
“He’s dangerous. And bad. He’ll do bad things to you,” she adds, wringing the fabric of her gown as she stands off from me.
“He’s the reason you’re not really here, Bella.”
“You’re the reason I’m not here. Or Mommy. You left us alone.”
The words pierce my heart, offering proof that one still resides inside my chest. “Please … don’t say that.”
“It’s true. You left us alone. And now you want to leave us again. Promise me you won’t go to the Goat man.”
With tears in my eyes, I lurch toward her, heartbroken when she backs herself away. “I promise. I won’t. I won’t leave you again.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
The edges of her form begin to fade, and with urgency in my muscles, I scramble forward, reaching out to grab the nothingness, and lose my balance. The cold crack of wood hits my temple as I crash to the floor, and I stare up at the ceiling as it fades in and out.
Standing over me, Isabella stares down, until everything fades to black.
21
IVY
There’s a method to murder, I suppose—a way that those who commit it on a regular basis manage to skate through the aftermath without a single drop of remorse.
I’m not one of those people. On one hand, that comes as a relief.
Parked at the side of the church in Damon’s car, I stare off through the long-settled night toward the shadowed yard in the back, where I know Calvin’s body is buried.
No, not buried. Dumped.
The car sits just outside the halo of light from the street lamp, concealed in the darkness, in case Father Ruiz happens to be up and about this hour. I told Damon I’d drive the vehicle only when necessary, seeing as how not actually owning a car over the last decade has severely impaired my skills. I don’t know that the trip to the church qualifies as necessary, but it has become my source of torment over the last couple of days, in my masochistic attempt to reconcile the guilt swimming through me. A reminder that I took part in killing a man.
He’s dead because of me.
It’s been about a week now. Some days, I can easily justify his murder, reminding myself that he slaughtered an innocent woman and child, and who knows how many more, besides them. Other days, I wish this guilt—killer’s remorse, as Damon once called it—could be wiped from my slate. That I could go back to before that night and leave L.A., as I’ve plotted so many times over the last few years.
Calvin would’ve found me, though. He always did, somehow.
I glance down at the digital clock to see it’s after eleven. Three times since that night, I’ve come here to stare off and contemplate all the possible consequences of this slaying, not the least of which is that my soul will inevitably burn for it. My hell will be spending an eternity in flames with the very asshole I helped kill. I wonder if Calvin was actually dead when Damon threw him in there, or maybe just deeply passed out from the torture he endured.
Two nights ago, I dreamed I was trapped in that suffocating stench of shit, with no light, no air, no hope. I woke up sobbing in an empty bed. Damon’s assured me, numerous times, that there’ll be nights like that, nights when I’ll swear I hear Calvin’s voice in my apartment, or feel him crawl into bed beside me.
I want these unreal encounters with him to go away, so I can forget him, perhaps even long enough to be able to look at myself in a mirror again without cringing.
Mamie’s funeral is tomorrow, right here at the church, and I’m grateful that it took a bit of time to arrange, because a week ago, I probably would have stood up during the service and confessed to Calvin’s murder.
Setting the car to drive, I step on the gas, and the car lurches forward before halting fast when I slam on the brakes. For Chrissakes, teenagers have a better handle on driving. Hands set to ten and two, I steer the vehicle back onto the mostly empty road and head in the direction of Calvin’s place.
This little diversion isn’t a typical part of my guilt trip, but last night, I went to bed with paranoid thoughts of police sno
oping around his house after a while, and finding things. Things like the medical record I know he still has in a box on the floor of his office, one which belonged to a lawyer. The lawyer he murdered because I supplied the information packaged in a handy little file for his perusal. A record they could easily trace back to my department at the hospital.
Not to mention the nudes he has stored on his computer that he emailed to my boss a while ago, which could be seen as motive on my part.
A number of small clues would send even a newb investigator to my door, and because I’m a shitty liar, the idea of that terrifies me. More than the hallucinations and nightmares and bad dreams. Having to keep all the lying details straight, while looking into the eyes of a skeptical investigator, follows a close second to thoughts of BASE jumping off a skyscraper.
If it came down to it, though, I’d probably opt for the skyscraper and a parachute. Considering Calvin was buddies with half the police in the city, my odds would be better, even with a faulty chute.
Two homeless guys are in the thick of a brawl on the street corner, but barely distract my thoughts as I pass. Los Angeles is a city that never sleeps. Any time of night, one can find junkies stumbling about, and it’s certainly not unusual to catch a spectator’s view of fights like these. Maybe one of them will die in the scuffle, and for a split second, I wonder what the victor would do with the body? Discard it? Or leave it and run?
I turn the car down Loma Vista, and pull up to the curb in front of a single-level Mission Revival-style home. Cinder blocks and a plank of wood create a makeshift porch, and the window shutters hang cockeyed, clinging to the house by sheer will. A total dump, if not for the half mil price tag.
Scanning the slumbering neighborhood, I scamper across the sun-fried lawn, which crunches beneath my ballet flats, and punch in the security code to enter. The door clicks, disengaging the locks, and I slip inside.
