Don't Leave Me Page 3

  And he knew, as clearly as he knew his own name, that this was the Mad Russian’s work.

  But why?

  A firefighter nudged him and said something. Chuck didn’t hear the words. Just looked at his house. Well, not his, technically. It was a rental, but it did not have his landlord’s stuff in it. It had Chuck’s. His life. And Stan’s.

  The firefighter pushed again. Chuck jerked away.

  “Get back,” the firefighter said. “We’ll handle it.”

  Chuck heard a muffled scream as Stan ran up, arms flapping.

  “Okay, okay, Stan. Easy.”

  Stan looked at the fire. Chuck felt Stan’s finger slip into his rear pocket. “Don’t leave me, please Chuck.”

  No, Stan, no, I won’t leave you. But what about inside? In that ruin were the last vestiges of Julia’s life with him. The scrapbooks she kept, her CD collection, her laptop from work. Gone. The last tokens of when things were good, before his deployment, before they began to look at each other like confused strangers.

  When he first got back, she came to see him at the VA. She was there in the room and she looked like two women at the same time. She looked like the woman he loved more than anybody he’d ever loved, and she looked like some neighbor down the street, the one you wave to every now and then but never really get to know. She’d had some rough patches growing up, but she never wanted to talk about them. But that is exactly where he wanted to go with her, to help her get past all that, to heal her. Be something to her that she didn’t have in her life. But now he was the damaged one, and the guilt ripped him like a clawing thing under his ribs.

  Guilt he could never assuage now, because she was gone.

  As the flames of the house licked upward, the shimmer of Julia’s face in his memory was consumed by the heat, and he was powerless to stop it.

  “Chuck!” It was his across-the-street neighbor, Belva, standing in her driveway.

  Chuck gave her a quick nod. Belva Gilbert loved to talk, and he was in no mood.

  “Chuck, come over here, please!”

  Stan said, “Chuck, Belva wants you to––”

  “I know, Stan.”

  “Right now, Chuck!” Belva said.

  Well, it wasn’t like he had any buckets of water to throw on the house. He crossed the street, Stan still hooked to his pocket.

  “Are you two all right?” Belva put her robust hands on Stan’s cheeks. Stan winced and nodded. Belva was sixty, with long white hair that befit a former hippy, which she happily admitted being. She still favored tie-dyed X-L tee shirts and didn’t care about hiding her amplitude.

  Chuck liked her, but she did play the earth mother role with a bit too much emphasis on mother. This was not the time. His house was burning down.

  Chuck said, “You have any idea how this happened?”

  Belva shook her head. “I was in the back, by the pool, absorbing my D. Next thing I hear sirens, and they came.”

  “Did you see anybody in the neighborhood today,” Chuck said, “who looked like they didn’t belong here?”

  “I’ve been inside all day, except when I went out by the pool. That’s my life now, you know, inside and the pool, ever since McSchmuck hit the road.”

  McSchmuck was Belva’s ex, who, as she put it, had flown the coop for a spring chicken.

  “Have you seen a black Escalade around here at all?” Chuck said.

  A look of concern crinkled the corners of her eyes. “No, dear, no. What’s the matter?”

  “A guy with a knife!” Stan said. “He has brown hair and brown eyes and his knife was this long”––Stan showed with his fingers––“and it goes into a silver holder, and he put it in his black jeans and––”

  “Okay, Stan,” Chuck said.

  “Knife?” Belva said. “Chuck, what on earth––”

  “You wait with Belva,” he said to Stan, and walked quickly to the corner, to Lucy Bowers’ house. He knocked on the front door.

  No answer.

  He tried the doorbell, then knocked again. Checked the door. Locked.

  He could hear Lucy’s dog barking like mad in the back yard.

  And yes, this was very much like madness, the whole thing. Stuff like this didn’t happen here, in the nice part of the Valley. This was West Hills, safe and suburban, not Canoga Park where Latino gangs tagged signs, and businesses operated on asphalt shoestrings. No, this was supposed to be where you brought kids up and took dogs for walks in the evening, and maybe stopped off at the Starbucks on Victory, or quick shopped at Trader Joe’s. No, it wasn’t like it used to be, post World War II. Chuck knew that. That kind of close-knit neighborhood fizzled in the sixties and died in the seventies when transiency became the norm for American life.

  But here, in this part of the 'burb, the houses still looked the same—Chuck’s, what was left of it, was built in ’64—and the people, aging Baby Boomers and a few young families starting out, were decent and community-minded.

  So what were knives and thugs and fires doing here? More, what were they doing directed at him?

  Chapter 7

  On his knees, Kovak prays before the icon. It is a cross, and it is made of knives. Two knives, one long blade, one short. And there is paint on the blades. The paint is red. Red spots and streaks, representing blood. Not the blood of Christ. His precious blood was shed for mercy. This red represents the blood of those who deserve to die.

  “Almighty God,” Kovak says, praying with eyes open, and looking at the knives, “Who delivered Your people from the bondage of the adversary, and through Your Son cast down Satan like lightning, deliver me also from every influence of unclean spirits. Command Satan to depart far from me by the power of Your only begotten Son. Rescue me from demonic imaginings and darkness. Give to me the power you have promised, and the will to see it through.”

  Kovak rises, crosses himself, picks up his phone. “Come in now,” he says.

  A moment later, the oak door opens and three of his soldiers enter. His best.

  Vaso, of course, without whom he would be lost.

  Antonije, the strong.

  And reliable Simo.

  They stand, shoulder to shoulder, arms behind them, at ease.

  Kovak allows himself a moment of satisfied reflection. Here in the hills above Malibu he has constructed a compound, complete with this room that he calls his chapel, and has soldiers who have sworn allegiance. His new identity is well established, and his enterprise thrives.

  “You know,” Kovak says, “that it is only one week until it comes. You will all be enriched beyond dreaming, but only if nothing goes wrong. I am holding each one of you to account, is that clear?”

  The three nod without hesitation.

  “This business with the car, who is responsible?”

  No answer, but the face of Vaso is telling.

  “My son?” Kovak asks.

  Vaso nods.

  “Where is he?”

  Vaso says, “He has not come home.”

  “Find him,” Kovak says. He nods at Vaso, who leaves. To Simo he says, “You have the information?”

  Simo steps forward and hands him one page.

  Kovak looks it over. It is a fine summary, as always with Simo. Kovak demands nothing less than perfection, but knows some will fall short. Especially his son. But not Simo. Or Vaso. It is all about the team.

  “A school teacher?” Kovak says.

  “Yes, sir,” Simo says.

  Kovak shakes his head. “Stupid. So stupid.” Kovak looks at Simo. “Get me all the information you can on this teacher.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As soon as possible.”

  Chapter 8

  “What happened to our house, Chuck?” Stan said.

  “You saw it,” Chuck said. They were driving away from the scene now, after two hours of watching and talking to both LAFD and LAPD. Chuck gave them as much as he could, then said he was through for the night. He had to get Stan settled down.

  “But why, Ch
uck, why?”

  “How the hell do I know? Why are you––” Chuck stopped when he saw the hurt look on Stan’s face.

  “You’re upset, Chuck.”

  “Ya think?”

  “You cussed.”

  “Hell is not a cuss word, Stan.”

  “Mom says.”

  “It’s in the Bible. Hell is in the Bible.”

  “There’s fire in hell,” Stan said.

  “Let’s not talk about fire or hell,” Chuck said. Because there’s enough hell right here in this life, kid. You don’t need to pile on anymore.

  Chuck drove to the Outside Inn, the oh-so-cleverly named motel on Ventura, a block away from Ralphs. From here they could regroup, and Stan could walk to work.

  Two anemic palm trees bracketed the driveway entrance, bending as if seeking to slink away from the place. The exterior of the joint was diffuse dull-orange stucco, like a couple of painters had slapped on a coat ten years ago then knocked off early and never came back.

  After securing a room, Chuck showed Stan their new home away from home. Done up in American Plain Wrap. A queen bed, a table, small refrigerator, TV. On the wall hung a framed print, a rendering of a large, black bull looking straight out at them. Chuck thought the bull could be asking the question How did I get stuck in a lousy dive like this?

  “Where’ll I sleep?” Stan said.

  “You can have the bed.”

  “You can sleep with me, Chuck.”

  “You flop around like a halibut, brother. I’ll take the floor.”

  Stan said, “How long do we have to be here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where will we live for the rest of our lives?”

  Chuck guided Stan to the bed and sat him down. “Hey, you know how we’ve always talked about you getting a place of your own, a little apartment? Maybe now––”

  “Don’t make me!” Stan said. “Not yet. I want to stay with you.”

  “And you will, but if we just start to think—”

  “Not yet! I’m scared.”

  “Well stop being scared!”

  “Don’t be mad at me, Chuck, please.”

  “I’m not mad at you.”

  “You sound mad.”

  “Sound! Yeah, I make sounds! You want to hear the sound of a chicken? Buck buck buck.”

  Stan laughed. He could go from sad to laughter like a scared lizard from a rock to a hole.

  “Do the fart one!” Stan said.

  “You want farts? You got farts!” Chuck pulled up his shirt and put his hand under his arm and pumped out the farting sound middle school boys are known for. He had been the champion of that sound as a kid.

  Blat blat blat. Chuck hit them hard, slapping at his side with his elbow, making it almost hurt. He could get rid of feelings when he hurt. He wanted to now, wanted to hurt and stop feeling.

  Stan rolled back on the bed, laughing it up.

  Blat blat blat.

  More laughing from Stan, too much of course, he could get that way, but it was hard not to laugh along with him.

  Chuck put his hands up in surrender and sat on the edge of the bed. It took Stan a minute to catch his breath.

  Finally Stan sat up. “That was fun,” he said. He looked around the room. “What’ll we do now?”

  Good question, brother! We just fell down an elevator shaft with no elevator. What do we do? How do I keep you from freaking out all the time? How do I keep myself from falling further down the shaft?

  “What do you say we blow some bucks?” Chuck said.

  “Huh?”

  “We go out to a big old dinner and maybe a movie. We forget everything. How’d you like that?”

  “Yeah! Can we have pizza?”

  “We’ll have two pizzas, one each, extra large. We’ll tell 'em extra cheese—”

  “Yes!”

  “We’ll tell 'em so much cheese it’ll be big and gooey and melty––”

  “Baby, oh baby!”

  “Then we’ll box up what’s left and eat it for breakfast, too.”

  “Yeah!”

  “And then we’ll have ice cream after,” Chuck said.

  Stan let out a sound that was part rebel yell and part man sitting on cactus. Yoweeee! Eee eee eee!

  “I guess you like that idea,” Chuck said, “I guess you––”

  His phone buzzed. Private number. A whisper of dread swept his mind.

  “Yeah?” he answered.

  A voice, low, said, “Don’t be bad now.”

  Chuck’s brain felt like it clenched, actually bunched up a like a fist at the base of his skull. He pushed hate through his teeth. “You like fire, do you?”

  “Don’t say anything to anybody. She would not have liked that.”

  “You listen now, I’m getting the cops on this, maybe the feds, so––”

  “Oh no. Your brother. He could get hurt very badly if you do that.”

  Chuck looked at Stan. He was bouncing up and down on the bed with an ecstatic, ice cream-anticipation look.

  The connection cut. Chuck looked at the phone like it was a dead animal, a dead thing sitting on top of his sweaty palm.

  “Chuck, what’s wrong?”

  Chuck said nothing. Behind his eyes, shadows danced.

  “Your face is funny, Chuck.”

  “That’s me. Mr. Funny.” Chuck wanted to throw his phone through the window, shatter some glass. At least that would be something, instead of sitting around, helpless. Who was this person, or people? Why was he being singled out?

  “Chuck?”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What for?”

  “Cause I’m scared.” Stan started clicking his left thumbnail with the nail of his right index finger. It was his front burner nervous tick, always had been. “'Cause I feel like the wolf man might come.”

  When they were kids they’d watched Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. There was a scene where Lou was in a hotel room with Lon Chaney, Jr., who turned into the wolf man and stalked Lou, who was oblivious to the danger around the room. Chuck laughed but for some reason Stan got real scared. And starting having nightmares about the wolf man chasing him. It got better over the years, but every now and then he’d have the nightmare, intensely.

  “No wolf men,” Chuck said. “Not while I’m around.”

  “You mean that, or are you just saying?”

  Chuck rubbed the top of Stan’s head with his knuckles. A little too hard. Stan said, “Ow!”

  Chuck said, “I guess you don’t want ice cream, huh?”

  “Do too, Chuck! You said!”

  “Did I? Did I say that?”

  “You said, Chuck. Pizza then ice cream!”

  “Really? Did I swear on a stack of Bibles?”

  “Aw, Chuck!”

  “All right, kid brother,” Chuck said. “Get your pig face on.”

  Chapter 9

  Detective Sandy Epperson pounded the table so hard she startled herself. The government-issue metal desk in the small interview room banged sharply, the sound quickly dying against the white insulation panels.

  Why was she doing this? It was late, she should be home sipping wine. But right now she was here at the station, and all she could think about was the girl sitting in front of her.

  “Look at me, Rosa. I mean look.” Sandy strafed Rosa Renteria’s sixteen-year-old brown eyes with a hard glare.

  Rosa sent back the open-mouth silent look, challenging Sandy to try to make her talk.

  “You saw it go down,” Sandy said. There’d been a gang fight on Valerio the night before, one banger shot to death. “You saw the whole thing and you think you’re being so cool and straight up. They’re using you, Rosa, they always will.”

  “You don’t know,” Rosa said. Her voice was almost comically mousy, even for someone as small as she.

  At least it was a response. That was something. A start. A crack in the wall. Sandy knew these days you didn’t get many of th
ose. These cholas looked at any LAPD detective as mierda. Especially an African American female detective. The one thing Sandy Epperson had going for her was that she could relate to girls like Rosa Renteria. When she was Rosa’s age she was around the gang element too, in Detroit. But she made it out. So could Rosa. So could any of them if you could just break through that crack.

  “You’re wrong about that,” Sandy said. “I know all about it.”

  “Sure.”

  “How long you think you’re gonna last with them?”

  “You know what happen if I say something? Like that chica got shot down, that’s what.”

  Sandy knew the case. It involved the big homey of the Westies, Jimmy Stone, and his white gang over in West Hills. Rich boys into drug running. And murder. Stone had been charged with first degree in the execution-style slaying of a Latino high school student. Two bullets to the head. But the only witness, a sixteen-year-old single mother named Esperanza Gomez, was gunned down in a park while strolling her baby. Without more, the prosecutor had to drop the case against Jimmy Stone. At least the baby had lived.

  Which would be no consolation to Rosa.

  “We can protect you,” Sandy said.

  Rosa laughed and turned her head. “Oh yeah.”

  Sandy felt like she was gripping the fingers of someone who was dangling over a cliff. “What’s it going to take?”

  “For what?” Rosa said.

  “To get you out of the life once and for all?”

  “Why you so interested?”

  “I have to have a reason?”

  “You’re a cop.”

  “So I can’t help you because I’m a cop?” The motto of the LAPD, To protect and to serve, flashed through Sandy’s head. “You should be looking at your whole life, to school and college and––”

  “School?” Rosa snorted. “I’m stupid. I can’t be in no school.”

  “You’re not stupid. I can tell.”

  Rosa’s eyes sparked.

  “You can tell when you talk to somebody,” Sandy said.

  “No way.”

  “I thought I was stupid.”

  “You?” Rosa said.