Your Son Is Alive Read online

  How should he explain death to Kyle? Real, physical death? Dylan remembered his own introduction to the big sleep, by way of a cartoon and a cat that died and its angelic spirit rising from the body, clad in a white robe playing a harp. He asked his own father about that and his father said he’d explain it later, hoping that Dylan would forget, which he did.

  It was four years later when his grandfather died and he learned what real death was.

  But there were no cats on TV now, only soldiers with rifles, and Dylan knew this was a question he couldn’t dodge.

  He knelt so he could be eye-to-eye with his son. That was the default position for a serious moment.

  Dylan said, “There are mean people who want to hurt other people, people that we like. Sometimes they even want to hurt us. And sometimes they use guns.”

  But Kyle’s concept of guns was virtually nil. He couldn’t recall if Kyle had ever seen a Western. And he knew there had been no gun battles among the Muppets or in Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.

  “Bullets come out of guns,” Dylan said, “like rocks. Remember throwing rocks at the beach?”

  Kyle nodded, trying to make sense of it.

  “But the bullets come fast and can go inside your body and hurt you bad, and sometimes they kill a person …”

  Kill? What did Kyle know of that?

  “It makes people’s bodies stop working,” Dylan said.

  That didn’t seem to register with Kyle.

  “It means they can’t walk around ever again. They go to sleep and never wake up.”

  His son was thinking about it.

  “So people that we like have to use guns sometimes to stop the mean people. That’s what is happening on TV. Those men are trying to stop mean people from hurting us.”

  Looking at the Beretta now, held properly, trigger finger on the side of the barrel, Dylan nodded at his remembered words.

  Yes, he could do it. He could shoot someone.

  And stop the mean people from hurting us.

  36

  Erin thought it might be Monica.

  But the peephole revealed a smiling Anderson Bolt. He was holding a bottle of champagne.

  Before the door was fully open, Erin said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I think they call this being spontaneous.” He held up the bottle and rocked it.

  “Andy, this is weird. Especially after the flowers.”

  “Flowers?”

  “Somebody sent me flowers at work.”

  “I have a rival?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Good! Then let’s have one sip of champagne.” He pronounced it shamPAHNya, like that character Christopher Walken played on SNL a long time ago. “Please?”

  “Just one,” Erin said. She opened the door and he came in, smelling pleasantly of cologne and the night. But as she closed the door she was suddenly aware of the lights. Too bright, and how did that make her look? Her lipstick! She hadn’t applied any since finishing her Panda Express an hour ago. Her hair was probably like wild Malibu grass in a breeze. And she remembered the small zit on the left side of her chin. A zit! At fifty years old! Yeah, buddy, maybe fifty is the new sixteen!

  “You’ll find champagne glasses in the kitchen cupboard,” she said, turning off the hall light. “I’ll be right with you.”

  “Check,” Andy said.

  As he ambled toward the kitchen, Erin banked the other way, to the front bathroom where she put her makeup on in the morning. She closed the door and looked at her face in the mirror, and fought the urge to cry out, Look away! I’m hideous!

  The zit was staring back at her with arrogant pride.

  She grabbed the Clinique and used the applicator sponge to smother the zit with skin toner. She gave it a quick smooth-over with her little finger. Then the lipstick, Raspberry Glace.

  Her hair actually wasn’t half bad.

  She brushed it anyway.

  Then threw all the stuff in a drawer, lest he should use this bathroom.

  When she got back to the kitchen he said, “I hope you don’t mind Dom Perignon.”

  “As long as he doesn’t mind me,” Erin said.

  “Dish towel?”

  “Behind you.”

  Andy put the dish towel over the champagne bottle and twisted. The cork came out with a full-bodied poomp!

  He poured two glasses, put the bottle down and handed her a glass.

  “What are we celebrating?” Erin said.

  “Us,” Andy said.

  They clinked and drank.

  “Ah,” Andy said. “The champagne is crisp and energetic. One can taste the sunny hillside where the grapes are grown.”

  “You are a connoisseur,” Erin said.

  “Actually, I have no idea what I’m talking about. But I try to make it sound good.”

  Erin resisted the urge to say, Is that what you’re doing with me? Because she was liking the champagne and the company and the distraction from her memories.

  “Can we take this somewhere?” Andy said.

  “Oh! Of course. Follow me.”

  She led him to the living room. Thankfully, only one table lamp was on, with low level lighting. She could handle that.

  Erin sat on the sofa, positioning herself in the middle. Andy didn’t take the hint and sat next to her, hip against hip.

  “Does the champagne come with some brakes?” Erin said.

  “You want skid marks on your carpet?” Andy said. He’d brought the bottle with him and placed it on the coffee table.

  “One glass,” Erin said.

  “Let’s finish, and then decide,” Andy said. He lifted his glass to her and sipped.

  She mirrored him, and he looked into her eyes with a soft but focused gaze. Erin didn’t know whether to melt or laugh. His romancing was not subtle.

  “Now,” he said, “who is this guy sending you flowers? Should I get out my dueling pistols?”

  “Were you born in 1777 or something?”

  “Answer the question,” he said.

  “Don’t put me on trial,” she said.

  “I just want to know.”

  “We’re not”—she almost said boyfriend and girlfriend but it sounded silly in her mind—“an item.”

  He smiled. “I like that. An item. From the shelf at the Love Store.”

  “Finish your champagne,” she said.

  Putting his half-filled glass on the coffee table, he sat back on the sofa and crossed his arms.

  “Now you’re being childish,” she said.

  “Why can’t you tell me about those flowers?” he said. “Were they from your ex-husband?”

  “No!”

  “They had to come from somebody.”

  “This is getting personal.”

  “Of course it is,” Andy said. “Don’t you want it to be?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure what I want right now.”

  “Because of what you told me, about your son?”

  She nodded.

  “Well,” he said, reaching for his glass, “I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to say ‘I’m here for you.’ That seems a bit of a cliché.”

  “But a nice one,” Erin said.

  “And now what I’d like to do is kiss you,” he said.

  “Not yet,” Erin said

  “Soon, though,” he said.

  “Not tonight,” she said.

  “Drat.”

  “Okay?”

  He sighed. “Whatever you say.”

  “Then cheers,” she said.

  37

  The house Tabitha Mullaney told Dylan to come to was across the 5 freeway from the Bob Hope Airport. It was an old neighborhood tucked up against the Verdugo Hills which, in the daytime, were a brown and scrubby obtrusion surrounded by housing developments. But at night they formed a dark refuge for coyote and snake.

  A perfect place for her home to be, Dylan thought, as he followed the instructions given him by Tabitha. He parked exactly as she told him to, at the cor
ner by a DWP box, under the street light which was radiating a dull yellow light.

  As Dylan got out of the car the sound of a dog barking in the distance gave off a Hound of the Baskervilles vibe. He started thinking Tabitha was running the sound on a loop, through speakers, just for his benefit.

  She had set everything up so neatly, why not that?

  He popped the trunk of his car and unzipped the soft gun case. He looked around to make sure he was alone, then removed the Beretta lifted the back of his coat and tucked the gun in his waistband. He closed the trunk. Looked around once more.

  Took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

  The hound barked again, this time as rapid as Dylan’s heartbeat.

  Her house was two from the corner, so she said. He checked the number on the front when he got there, barely visible by the light of another street lamp. In the dim, the house looked like any other single-family dwelling. The front window was illuminated, yellowish through soft curtains. Dylan imagined Tabitha sitting there like Madame Defarge, knitting the names of all the people she wanted to destroy.

  He was on the sidewalk at the edge of a cement path to the front door. He didn’t move, but kept watch, as if he expected her to jump out like a jack-in-the-box, or one of those hands that shoots out of the shadows in a horror movie.

  This was crazy.

  This was nuts.

  This was not Dylan Reeve, normal human being and professional healer. With a freaking gun in his pants?

  What if he just walked away now?

  Would it be his last chance to find out the truth about his son?

  Could he live with the uncertainty of that for the rest of his life? Or had she read him like the proverbial book, the kind with predictable characters and tragic endings?

  The door cracked open.

  Soft light from inside the house made a silhouette of the figure that appeared in the space.

  It was a man.

  “Mr. Reeve?” he said.

  “Who are you?” Dylan said. He kept his voice soft, as if he might disturb a neighbor or start another dog barking.

  “Please come in,” the man said.

  “Where’s Tabitha?”

  “She’s here.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m here to help.”

  Dylan didn’t move. “I don’t know you.”

  “That makes us even, Mr. Reeve. Would you prefer we talk out there?”

  “I think I might,” Dylan said.

  “All right.”

  The man came out, closing the door behind him. As he approached, Dylan assessed. The man was big, over six feet, barrel-chested, wearing a Hawaiian shirt over khakis and running shoes. His head was round and bald. Tabitha had mentioned having a brother. Maybe this was him.

  Dylan watched the man’s hands. They seemed relaxed.

  Or coiled.

  “What is this?” Dylan said.

  “Tabitha has asked me to be an intermediary,” the man said. His voice was not threatening. It was a car salesman’s voice as he showed you the floor model.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “She knows you’re wary.”

  “What a shock that must be,” Dylan said.

  “But she has every right to be wary of you as well.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Please come in and let’s settle this thing once and for all.”

  “Who are you?” Dylan said. “What’s your name?”

  “All will be explained.”

  Dylan didn’t move.

  “If I wanted to do you harm,” the man said, “I would have done it already. This is about seeing your son again. There are papers to look over.”

  “Papers?”

  The man nodded.

  “Are you a lawyer?” Dylan said.

  “Thank God no,” the man said with a smile. “I used to be a cop. I’m a private investigator now.”

  The man took out a leatherette card holder and flipped it open, holding it up for Dylan to see. In the thin glow of the street light Dylan could make out PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR across the top of the laminated card. On the left side was a photo that looked like the guy. On the right was a seal of some kind. There were several lines of writing, like on a driver’s license.

  “Come on inside and let’s make this thing legal,” the man said.

  “May I know your name? I couldn’t read it on the card.”

  “Milton Carbona,” he said. “Feel free to call me Milt.”

  The inside of the house was spare. Nothing on the walls. It was like a place that someone was about to move out of. Or perhaps had never fully moved into. Only a few items of furniture, nothing that matched. The man motioned for him to go into what would have been the living room. The expanse of hardwood floor had a couple of folding chairs and an overturned crate that could have been used as a table. The small lamp providing the only light was by the curtained window and had been placed right on the floor.

  “Homey,” Dylan said.

  “Think of this more as a business office,” Carbona said.

  “What business is that? Extortion?”

  “We don’t have to be unpleasant about this, do we?”

  “Where is Tabitha?”

  “If I’m any judge of women, I think she’s making sure she looks good. Entirely for your benefit.”

  “I just want to get this over with,” Dylan said. “Do you know anything about my son?”

  “I do,” Carbona said. “I know he’s alive.”

  Dylan was filled suddenly with a distant longing, an ache that made his arms tingle and his hands feel weak. Like a man trapped in a collapsed mine, entombed in darkness, sensing the slight flickering of the light of the search-party torches just beyond the rocks. He wanted to cry out.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” Carbona said.

  Dylan remained standing. “How are you involved?”

  “Give me a second.” Carbona went to the overturned crate. Dylan could imagine gangsters in an old Warner Bros. movie playing cards on it as they waited out the cops.

  Carbona bent over, lifted the crate and reached for something underneath it.

  When he stood up again he was holding a revolver.

  Pointed at Dylan’s chest.

  “I’ll need your gun,” Carbona said.

  “What?”

  “The heat you’re packing, as we in the industry like to say. Lift your hands up for me, please.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Mr. Reeve, ridiculous is that you’ve come here with a gun under your coat. You’re an amateur and it’s not safe. Hands up, please.”

  Feeling like a kid caught with a cookie before dinner, Dylan raised his hands. The gesture brought heat to his face—embarrassment, mostly, for being so obvious.

  Carbona approached, keeping the gun at chest level, and Dylan was once more quite aware he was no action hero. He wasn’t going to slug the PI and take his weapon. He was as helpless as a baby in a high chair.

  With his left hand, Carbona reached behind Dylan’s shoulder and guided him into a half turn. Then he reached under Dylan’s coat and removed his gun.

  Holding the stippled gun butt with his thumb and two fingers, Carbona said, “Have a seat.”

  No use fighting it. Dylan lowered himself into one of the folding chairs. Its cheapness squeaked under his weight.

  “Beretta M9,” Carbona said, nodding. “Fine weapon. Not quite as reliable as a Glock, in my opinion, but perfectly fine if you know what you’re doing.”

  “Obviously not,” Dylan said.

  “It’s experience, Mr. Reeve. That’s all. You’re trained in chiropractic, not security.”

  Carbona gently placed the Beretta on the floor, as if it were a dead fish on a gutting board. Then he put his foot on top of it and with a swift motion sent it skidding across the hardwood floor. It came to rest under the window.

  “What are you doing?” Dylan said.

  Carbona sat in the ot
her chair, facing Dylan. He rested the revolver on his legs with the barrel pointed off to the side.

  “My grandfather was a troubleshooter for the movie studios,” Carbona said. “He helped keep people like Robert Mitchum from getting into more trouble than they already did.”

  “That’s really fascinating,” Dylan said. “But isn’t it about time you told me what this whole setup is for?”

  “All will become clear very soon,” Carbona said.

  “Let’s make it clear now,” Dylan said.

  Carbona cocked his head, seemed to be listening for something. Then he nodded. “Three minutes,” he said. “Give or take.”

  He listened again.

  Then Dylan heard it.

  Sirens.

  Getting closer.

  Fast.

  38

  To his credit, Andy had not tried to kiss her before he left. But he did give her a predictive squint, a promise of more to come. She was good with that. His attentions were not unwelcome.

  And he’d left her the champagne. She’d had another glass, got in her PJs, and tried to read a book. An actual, physical, hardcover book. Not that she was against ebooks. She had a Kindle, and an app on her phone. But she’d always liked holding books, ever since her mother introduced her to the wonderful world of Stockton-San Joaquin County public library. The first book she ever checked out on her own was Charlotte’s Web.

  Then here in L.A., when the family was intact, when Kyle turned three, she started taking him to story time every week at the local branch of the L.A. library system. And then would let him pick out books to bring home for her to read to him.

  Which was why she checked out books from the library. It was a subtle connection to the memory of her son.

  The books she read were not thrillers. She’d enjoyed that genre before Kyle was taken. But after that she found she couldn’t take the feelings a thriller engendered. They usually involved someone in great peril and pain at the hands of a very bad villain, and that was just too close to home.

  She didn’t go for the traditional romance genre, either, though they contained a “happily ever after” ending. That was pure fiction, a denouement she couldn’t ever again buy into.

  So she went for epic fantasy, finding pleasurable escape in the imaginary worlds and complex plots.