Can I Trust You With My Heart
By:
Kenda
Can I Trust You With My Heart
was inspired by the aired episode, Nuevo Salvador. Can I Trust You With My Heart
disregards the events depicted in my Simon and Simon novel, Precious Cargo, and
is instead a ‘stand-alone’ novel.
~~~~~~
Monday,
October 26th, 1992
He
sat apart from the others, huddled miserably into a thin jacket that didn't
begin to fight the damp air blowing in off the bay. The zipper was broken, forcing the shivering man to hold the
jacket together with numb fingers. A bone jarring coughing spasm left his
undernourished body aching. He knew he
was sick, maybe even seriously so. But
he had no money for medicine, and no one to turn to for help.
Sometimes
he wondered if things had always been this way. If he had always lived by his wits on the streets. He thought not. He thought that at one time
he had belonged to someone. To a family.
He seemed to think people had actually cared about him when he was cold
and sick and hungry. But when he tried
to recall their names or their faces, he couldn't. Everything about him, who he was and where he came from, was one
big blank. A big empty spot that seared
his soul like a hot branding iron sears the skin of a helpless calf.
When
the coughing subsided he laid his head back against the rough brick of the
abandoned building. He pulled the jacket even more tightly around his shaking
body. He had found it several weeks
back when the weather had first started to turn cold in a garbage can behind
someone's house. He was forging for
food, but had been just as happy to run across this light blue jacket, even
though the zipper was broken and the front stained with grease. He wondered if he'd get lucky enough to find
a winter coat. A hat and gloves to go
along with it would be heaven. He
didn't know where he was or what month it was, but by the nip in the air in the
mornings now he instinctively knew it was going to get a lot colder before warm
weather reappeared. He didn't suppose
the worn out tennis shoes on his feet were going to provide much warmth either
once the temperatures started to drop.
The sole of the left one was ripped and flapped against the street like
a leather thong when he walked.
He
observed the other homeless people like himself sitting together in groups of
three's and four's. Most were men, but
there were a few women here and there, and even a handful of forlorn
children. But he didn't belong to any
of them either. As clear as he could
remember, he didn't belong to anyone.
And
deep down inside he cried for himself, while wondering who he was, where he
was, and how he'd come to lead such a miserable existence.
Chapter
1
Thursday,
October 29th, 1992
Four
weathered and tattered men sat around a battered wooden milk crate, playing a
game of cards and sharing a bottle of cheap whiskey. One nodded toward a solitary man with shaggy hair and a scraggly
beard wearing a light blue jacket.
"Hey,
looky there," Shorty said.
"He's back."
Another
of the card players glanced over his shoulder.
"Who? Oh, him.
Yup. He shows up ever few days
and juz kinda sits there and watches everbody." The man gave an exaggerated shudder. "Gives me the
creeps."
A
dried up prune of an old man by the name of Will asked, "Who is he?"
"Don't
know," Shorty shrugged. "He
don't talk."
Will
cocked a bushy gray eyebrow.
"Don't talk? 'Cause he
can't? Or 'cause he won't?"
"Beats
me," Shorty replied. "Alls I
know is he never says a word. No one
knows anythin' about 'im. Not his name,
not his story, nothin.’ Not even
Malachi. And if Malachi don't know,
then I don't a' reckon none of us ever will."
Will studied the loner in the dim light cast
off from a nearby street lamp.
"Well, if you ask me, he ain't one of us."
Shorty
studied the hand he'd been dealt.
"Whatta ya’ mean he ain't one of us? 'Course he's one of us.
He's sleepin' in an alley, ain't he?"
"No,"
Will shook his head. "He's
different. He don't belong here. He...at one time I bet he was
somebody."
The
remainder of the card players laughed.
"Somebody? Like who?
The Prince of Wales?"
"Or
maybe the King of Germany!"
"Germany
don't have a king, stupid."
"Whatever. Then the King of...of...of whatever
countries have kings."
Will
didn't allow himself to be intimidated by his friends.
"You guys laugh your asses off for
all I care. But I can see it in his eyes - the pain and the confusion."
One
of the men leaned across the small crate.
"Hey, Will, look into my eyes and tell me what you see."
Will
gave the lonely stranger one last long look before brushing the teasing and
mockery aside.
"Knock it
off, wiseguys, and let's play cards."
Chapter
2
Saturday,
November 7th, 1992
Rick
Simon sat on the couch in the living room of his houseboat. His dog, Rex, lay next to him. As if sensing his master's deep deep sorrow,
Rex placed his head on Rick's knee and gave the man a soulful look.
Rick
smiled softly and reached down to caress the dog's head. He turned his attention back to the TV
screen, and watched the eleven-month-old baby toddle across the room to his big
brother. When the baby had almost
reached his destination he tripped and fell forward. He let out a shrill laugh of delight when the older boy caught
him and hugged him close. Off camera
you could hear a woman's voice praising, "Thank you for catching him,
Rick. You're such a good brother."
Rick
saw his six-year-old self turn toward his mother's voice and beam at her
compliment. He watched as his little
brother squirmed out of his arms and ran with uncoordinated steps to a large
ball sitting across the room. A.J. bent
down and picked it up. He wobbled
unsteadily a moment and almost toppled backwards onto his diaper-clad bottom. Rick could hear his father's laughter in the
background, as well as his own, as they observed the baby's antics. A.J. regained his balance, and with a
toothless grin, tossed the ball to Rick with all the dexterity his chubby arms
would allow. Their father filmed a few
minutes of their game before the sequence moved on to A.J.'s first birthday,
and then Christmas 1950.
Rick
had watched the tape often enough to know it by heart. The birthday parties, holiday celebrations,
family gatherings, and the first day of school recorded year after memorable
year, the passage of time and the growth of a family marked faithfully by Jack
Simon's movie camera. After his death
Cecilia had taken over the duty of archiving her sons' lives through their teen
years. First Rick's high school
graduation, then A.J.'s. A goodbye
party for Rick held in the Simons' backyard the night before Cecilia and A.J.
saw him off to boot camp. And then
A.J.'s college graduation ceremony four years thereafter.
Rick
rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and turned away from the screen. The home movies that had once been such a
joy to view now brought nothing but pain.
A pain so sharp and deeply penetrating Rick didn't know how to begin to
abate it.
"Rick...Rick?"
Rick
jumped at the sound of the voice behind him.
Even Rex hadn't detected their visitor's presence.
"Sorry,
man. Didn't mean to scare
you." Downtown Brown slid the
patio doors open wider and stepped inside.
"I knocked, but I guess you didn't hear me."
Rick
reached for the remote control and hit the pause button, effectively freezing
the action of Christmas morning 1950 for the time being. He rose and rounded the couch. "Hey, Towner."
Town
stepped into his old friend's open arms, readily reciprocating the hug he found
himself enfolded in. "Hi,
buddy," he quietly greeted.
"How ya' doin'?"
Rick
stepped out of Town's embrace. He
couldn't meet the black man's gaze when he shrugged and stated half heartedly,
"I'm doin' okay."
Town
surreptitiously studied the detective.
Rick had lost even more weight since Town had last seen him two months
earlier. The dark circles under his
eyes, and the bloodshot lines that streaked the whites, gave clear testimony as
to how little sleep Rick was getting each night.
"Can
I get you something?" Rick
offered. "A beer? Soda?"
Town
crouched down to pet Rex, who had jumped off the couch to come greet their
guest. "A beer would be fine. Thanks."
Rick
pulled two cold bottles of Budweiser out of the refrigerator and rummaged
around in the silverware drawer for the opener. "Where's Temple? You
didn't drive down here by yourself for the weekend, did you?"
Town
gave Rex a final pat on the head before rising. "No, she came with me.
I left her at your mother's house.
I stayed long enough to say hi to your mom before coming over here. You and I are supposed to pick the ladies up
at seven."
"At
seven? Why?"
"Because
Temple and I are taking the two of you to dinner, that's why."
Rick
rounded the counter with the beer bottles in hand. He gave one to Town while leading the man into the living
area. With a nod of his head he
indicated for Town to take a seat. The
policeman settled himself in the easy chair, while Rick retook his former place
on the couch. Rex plopped at his master's
feet.
Rick
took two swigs of cold beer, then settled the frigid bottle between his blue
jean clad thighs. "I hope you two
didn't drive all the way down from L.A. just to take me and Mom out for
supper."
"So
what if we did? Is there any crime in
us wanting to spend the afternoon and evening with two close friends that we
don't get to see often enough?"
Rick
smiled softly in appreciation. He knew
fully well that was only a small portion of the reason why the police
lieutenant and his wife had made this spur of the moment visit. For eight
months earlier Rick Simon's world had come apart at the seams.
His brother had
vanished without a trace.
_________________
It
had been the second weekend in March.
Rick had puttered around the boat that Saturday morning, then went
grocery shopping. He stopped to shoot the
bull with Carlos for an hour before returning home. After putting his groceries
away, he took Rex for a long walk and a game of Frisbee on the beach. When they got back to the houseboat Rick had
just enough time to shower and shave before leaving to pick up his girlfriend,
Nancy. The couple were meeting a group
of friends at the bowling alley, and then going out for a late dinner
afterwards.
Rick
didn't return home that evening, instead accepting Nancy's invitation to spend
the night with her. He lightly kissed
the sleeping woman as he crawled out of her bed early the next morning. He would have liked to linger longer, but
was well aware of the dog he had left on the houseboat, who would by now be in
bad need of a bathroom break.
Rick
let himself in his home a few minutes after seven that Sunday morning. Rex danced at his feet in enthusiastic
greeting before bounding out the open door.
Rick
walked into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee brewing. He took note of the blinking light on his
answering machine and reached a hand out to rewind the tape. He opened a cabinet door to retrieve a
cereal bowl and a box of Cheerios while he listened to his messages. The first one was from Surplus Sammy in
regards to the arrival of a new video surveillance camera Rick had ordered that
A.J. knew nothing about. Rick was still
puzzling over how he was going to gently break the news to his brother of that
twelve hundred dollar expenditure, when the second message played.
"Rick?" A feminine voice inquired, "This is Dianna. It's six-thirty on Sunday morning. I'm looking for A.J. Is he with you? If he is, would one of you guys please call me? If he's not...well, if he's not, please call
me as soon as you get this message, Rick."
Rick
frowned. He tried to recall if A.J. had
mentioned anything of his weekend plans as the brothers left the office
together on Friday evening. He couldn't
remember anything specific being said.
He had just assumed some part of A.J.'s weekend would be spent with the
girlfriend he'd been steadily dating for two years. Just as it was generally a given Rick would spend a good portion
of his weekend with Nancy, whom he'd been seeing for about the same length of
time.
Rick
grabbed his address book out of a kitchen drawer and looked up Dianna's
number. To begin with he was confused
as to why she might think A.J. was with him at six-thirty on a Sunday
morning. And he hadn't liked the way she
sounded. Not exactly upset, or at least
not upset at A.J., as much as she sounded worried and unnerved.
Dianna
picked up the phone on the first ring.
"A.J.?"
"No,
Di, it's Rick. What's goin' on?"
"A.J.'s
not with you?"
"No. Is he supposed to be?"
"Well...I'm
not sure. I thought maybe he was. He was supposed to pick me up at seven
o'clock last night. We had seven-thirty
reservations at the Harborside Dinner Theatre.
We were supposed to eat and see a play.
But at six he called and said something had come up and that he was
going to be late."
"Did
he say what it was?"
"That's
the weird thing, Rick. He didn't. And that's not like A.J. When I asked him what he had to do he said
not to worry and that he'd call me later.
He sounded...upset, Rick. Almost
frantic. Like he had to be some place
in a hurry. Before I could get any more
of an explanation from him, he hung up."
Though
Rick could already guess the answer to his next question, he asked it
anyway. "Did you try callin' him
this morning?"
"Yes. I've been trying on and off since ten
o'clock last night. I've left a half
dozen messages on his answering machine, but have yet to hear from him."
"I'm
certain everything's okay," Rick assured with false confidence. "Don't worry. I'm gonna get in the truck and drive over to his place and see
what's goin' on."
"But,
Rick," Dianna's voice rose an octave, "how can everything be
okay? Where could he be? And why wouldn't A.J. tell me what was going
on? Why wouldn't he tell me why he had
to break our date?"
"I
don't know, Di. But I'll find out. Just...try not to worry. I'll call you as soon as I know
something. Maybe...well maybe he got a
call from one of our clients. We do
have several jobs goin' on right now.
Maybe he ended up pullin' a stakeout or something."
"But
wouldn't he have at least tried to get a hold of you? Wouldn't he have left a message on your machine if that's what he
was doing?"
Yeah,
he would have, Rick's mind acknowledged.
That was not the response he made, however.
"Maybe
not. Or maybe he tried to call me, and
when I didn't answer he figured I was with Nancy so didn't bother to leave a
message. Until I talk to him I don't
know."
Dianna's
tentative reply of "Okay," was small and full of fear. "But you'll call me? As soon as you know anything, I mean?"
"I'll
call you," Rick promised.
"I"ll even do better than that. I'll have A.J. call you."
Rick
could hear the tiny smile that remark got out of A.J.'s girlfriend. "Thank you, Rick."
"Just
don't worry, darlin.’ I'm sure there's
no need to. One of us will call you in
a little while."
Fifteen
minutes later, with Rex in tow, Rick pulled into A.J.'s driveway. He peered in the garage window as he passed
and immediately took note of the absent Camaro. He used his key to gain entrance into the house.
"A.J.!" Rick shouted from where he stood in the
middle of his brother's kitchen.
"A.J.!"
Though
he had already guessed a search of the house would prove to be an effort in
futility, Rick did just that. More to
steady his own nerves than anything else, he called A.J.'s name as he went from
room to room with Rex at his heels. As
was normal for his brother, each room was in impeccable order.
Rick
stopped short when he came to the doorway of A.J.'s bedroom. A charcoal gray suit and white dress shirt
were neatly laid out on his queen size bed along with a tie. As Rick stepped into the room he could see a
dresser drawer had been left wide open.
He walked over to find it contained blue jeans and polo shirts. He moved on to the master bathroom. A wet towel had been wadded up in a
haphazard ball and left lying on the vanity top. Next to the towel sat A.J.'s electric razor. The sliding shower doors were wide open. Beads of water still clung to the ceramic
tile that lined the walls of the tub, and the cap had been left off the
shampoo.
None
of the disarray was like Rick's brother.
Thinking back to everything Dianna had relayed to him on the phone
caused Rick to deduce that whatever had come up to prompt A.J. to leave the house
in such a rush had come up while he was in the shower, or just after he’d
stepped out of it. The dress clothes so
carefully laid on the bed indicated to Rick that A.J. had been getting ready
for his evening with Dianna. The open
dresser drawer and the wet towel left in the bathroom caused Rick to guess A.J.
had made a quick change of plans.
But
why? Rick had pondered. Why
didn't he at least leave a message on my machine? We've always made it a point to check in with one another when
something comes up regarding a case.
Rick
walked back into the bedroom and headed for A.J.'s nightstand. He opened the drawer it contained, only to
find it devoid of what he was looking for.
A.J.'s gun. Whatever it was that
caused A.J. to leave the house in such a rush had given Rick's brother reason
to believe he had a need to be armed.
Rick shut the drawer and picked up the hardcover novel resting on top of
the stand. It fell open to the place
A.J. had left off and marked with a bookmark - chapter eighteen. Rick stared down at the pages a moment, then
shook his head in frustration. He
wasn't going to find any clues here.
Rick
headed back down the stairs. The only
place he could think to start was to head to the office and look up the phone
numbers of the three clients they presently had cases for. Hopefully it was as he had assured Dianna,
that A.J. had gotten a call from one of those clients in need of his help. Rick couldn't quite figure out why, however,
if that were the case, that A.J. would have sounded frantic and upset on the
phone when he spoke to Dianna. But possibly the woman had just misread his
tone.
The
ringing of the telephone made Rick run the rest of the way down the stairs and
through the den to the kitchen. He
snared the hand piece before the answering machine could click on.
"A.J.?"
"Rick?"
"Mom?"
To
say it was a confusing beginning to a conversation was an understatement. There was a significant pause as Cecilia
Simon tried to figure out if she'd dialed her oldest son's phone number by
mistake.
"Rick?"
"Yeah,
Mom, it's me."
"You're
at A.J.'s?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Oh...nothing. I just thought maybe I dialed...well, never
mind what I thought. I was going to
call you as soon as I got off the phone with him anyway. But as long as you're there you can tell
your brother for me."
"Tell
him what?"
"Now
I don't want either one of you to be upset, honey. I'm perfectly fine. I
wasn't home when it happened."
"When
what happened, Mom?"
"The
break-in. I was out with Doug yesterday
afternoon and evening."
By
Doug, Rick knew his mother meant Douglas McKenna, the lawyer she was engaged in
a semi-serious relationship with.
"Doug
brought me home around two this morning and that's when we discovered someone
had broken into the house and ransacked it."
"Was
anything taken?"
"That's
what's strange, Rick. Absolutely
nothing is missing. No money, no
jewelry, not the TV, VCR, or microwave.
But every drawer and closet has been turned inside out, and practically
every piece of furniture overturned."
"Are
the police still there?"
"Just
Abby. She's getting ready to leave,
too."
"Mom,
I'll be right over. Don't let Abby
go. I need to talk to her."
"What
about?"
"Just
don't let her leave, Mom."
And
that was the beginning of a number of odd coincidences and unexplained
happenings that all centered around A.J. Simon's disappearance.
_________________
Rick looked across the room as Town drained
the last of the beer in his bottle.
When all the logical places to look for A.J. had been exhausted that
Sunday back in March, the police recorded him as an official missing person. Someone from the station called Town up in
L.A. to let him know what was going on.
Four days later he took a week of vacation and showed up on Rick's
doorstep to aid the detective in his own private search for his brother. What few leads the men had, evaporated as
quickly as water against hot asphalt on a sunny day. The only thing they had to go on was the phone call A.J. made to
Dianna at six p.m. Abby sought
information from the phone company and did determine that a call came into A.J.'s
house at 5:48 that evening. Rick's fear
in regards to his brother's fate was only heightened when he learned the call
had been made from a pay phone. Rick,
Abby, and Town could only guess that phone call was the reason behind A.J. so
abruptly changing his plans with Dianna.
Rick
fiddled with the half full bottle that rested between his thighs. He finally sat it on the coffee table and
pushed it aside. "I still think
there's got to be some connection between Mom's house being ransacked, that phone
call to A.J., and A.J. leavin' like he did.
I just wish to God I could figure out what it was."
Town
simply nodded in agreement. He and Rick
had been over this a hundred times in the past eight months. Maybe even a thousand. His instincts as a twenty-two year veteran
of the police department told him that indeed, those three things were
connected in some way. Unfortunately,
there just hadn't been enough clues left behind from which to draw any firm
conclusions. Whoever ransacked
Cecilia's house was a professional.
He'd disabled her home security system, something Town was well aware
happened in only two percent of home break-ins. The average burglar didn't have that kind of knowledge, nor did
he want to expend that kind of time.
But this guy wasn't an average burglar.
Nothing had been taken. Yet by
the conditions of the rooms, it was quite apparent that the person, or persons,
had been in Cecilia's house for a lengthy period of time. Why was their only intent to create utter
chaos?
Rick had a theory about all this, but it was
a weak one at best. While none of
Cecilia's neighbors had observed anything suspicious going on around her house
that afternoon or early evening, one very elderly man thought he remembered
seeing A.J.'s Camaro in the driveway about six-fifteen. Unfortunately, he had no idea how long the
car was there, nor was he even certain it was Saturday night that he had seen
it. It wasn't unusual for the neighbors to see either Rick's truck or A.J.'s
car in their mother's driveway at various times throughout the week, so the man
hadn't paid much attention to it.
"I
still think I'm on track with my original theory," Rick stated as though
he could read Town's mind.
"Someone called A.J. and told him Mom's house had been broken into. The same someone who has the answers as to
A.J.'s whereabouts."
"Rick,
you can't know that for sure."
"But
Mr. Ogden saw--"
"Mr.
Ogden is ninety-two years old and half blind," Town gently reminded. "And besides, he never has been able to
say for certain it was Saturday night when he saw A.J.'s car. Your mother herself said A.J. stopped by
after work on Friday evening. More than
likely that's when Mr. Ogden remembers seeing the Camaro."
Rick
wanted to argue the point further, but he knew it would do him little
good. He and Town had overturned this
stone more than once since A.J. had been gone.
Deep down inside Rick knew Town was probably right when he speculated
Mr. Ogden actually saw A.J.'s car in their mother's driveway on Friday
evening. But if Rick admitted that to
himself, or even out loud to Town, it would be like admitting defeat. It would be like admitting that he might as
well give up his search for his brother for lack of any other place to
look. And he just wasn't ready to do
that.
The
frozen frame on the TV screen kicked back into motion as the 'still' feature on
the VCR reached its time limit. Town
watched with Rick for a few minutes as the Simon brothers' boyhoods played out
before their eyes.
"Where'd
you get this?" The black man
finally asked.
"Without
Mom knowin' it A.J. and I took the old eight millimeter movies from her house
and had them put on video cassette over the winter. It was supposed to be her Mother's Day present. But then...well, after everything that
happened I just couldn't give 'em to her."
"So
you sit here by yourself day after day and watch them over and over
again."
Rick
looked up at Town's sharp statement of reprimand. "So what if I do?"
"Rick...it's
not healthy. You know it's not. The last thing you need to be doing right
now is sitting here all alone watching old home movi--"
"I'll
decide for my ownself what's healthy and what's not!"
Rick's
sudden eruption startled Town, the slumbering Rex, and even Rick himself to a
certain extent.
A
long, uncomfortable silence prevailed in the room until Rick finally reached
for the remote control, stopped the tape, then clicked off the TV. He sighed heavily and laid his head back
against the couch.
"I'm
sorry, Towner. You didn't deserve
that."
"Forget
it, Rick. And I'm the one who should
apologize. You're right. It's not for me to decide what's healthy for
you and what's not. Only you can know
that."
Rick
brought his head up and looked across the coffee table at the black man. In that instant Town saw nothing but
unspeakable anguish in Rick's bloodshot eyes.
Unspeakable anguish, and unshed tears.
"It's
just that...that I'm so afraid this is all I've got left. Just a shoe box full of his personal stuff
and these old movies." Rick shaded
his eyes with his left hand. That
movement effectively hid his tears from the police lieutenant, but it couldn't
keep them out of his voice.
"And it's just not enough, Towner. It's just not...not enough."
Because
he understood Rick Simon almost as well as anyone could hope to understand Rick
Simon, Town allowed the man the space and time he needed to silently
grieve. As emotion overtook him, Rick
brought his right hand up to join his left in covering his face. Town didn't miss the faint tremors that
coursed through those hands like a gentle breeze causes faint tremors to course
through hanging leaves.
Cecilia
had been correct when she told Town that she feared her oldest son was on the
verge of collapse. Not that Cecilia
herself was doing much better, Town thought.
She had aged ten years in the past eight months, as had Rick.
Rick
finally scrubbed his hands over his face before letting them drop to his
lap. The only trace of tears to be seen
was in the overly bright eyes and the spiked, wet lashes. Minutes passed before either man spoke.
Rick's
voice was husky and quiet. "I
dream about him almost every night.
Sometimes I'm in a maze and I know if I can get to the end of it I'll
find him. That somehow the end of that
maze holds the answers I'm lookin' for.
But I never make it. I just keep
runnin' into one dead end after another like a mouse lookin' for that elusive
piece of cheese."
Town
nodded in sympathy. No doubt Rick's
dream was his mind's way of acting out the frustration the elder Simon had been
living with in regards to his fruitless eight month search for his brother.
"And
sometimes I hear him callin' me. His
voice is so clear, Town, it's like he's standin' right next to me. He's callin' me, and I know he needs my
help, only I can't find him.
“And sometimes...sometimes
I'm walking down a highway that seems to go nowhere. Like a highway in the desert.
I'm stumblin' along, hot and looking for water, and I come across something
layin' face down in the road. At first
I think...at first I think it's an animal, but as I get closer...as I get
closer I see that it's a man."
"Rick...don't."
"It's
a man," Rick went on as if Town hadn't spoken. "I turn him over to see if I can help him. And when I do...when I do, it's A.J., Town. It's always A.J. And he's always dead.
"And
I guess if I'm gonna be honest with myself, I have to face the fact that dream
is tryin' to tell me what my conscious mind won't accept. That A.J.'s dead."
"We
don't know that for sure."
"But
everyone thinks it. You...Abby...and
every other cop that has worked this case.
Not to mention our family and friends.
It's been eight months, Town.
I'm not stupid. A grown man
usually disappears for only one of two reasons. Either he's running from the law, which rules A.J. out completely,
or he's met with foul play."
Town
knew even a well-intentioned lie at this point would be a disservice. "That's true," he reluctantly
conceded, "but sometimes there's still a chance--"
Rick's
voice was so soft Town had to strain to pick up his words.
"I
have a feelin' our chances ran out long ago, Towner. I have a feeling that's a fact both Mom and I are gonna have to
face. It's just the not knowin' that's
hell. Not knowing if he really is alive
somewhere and needs my help, or if he's...beyond that. Not knowing if it was quick...or if he
suffered." Rick hid his head in
his hands once again. "God, Town,
I pray every night that whatever happened he didn't suffer. I couldn't bear to find out he did."
Town
had heard these exact same words so many times in his long career. Every time he spoke with the parents, or
spouse, or brothers, or sisters, of a victim of foul play. And every time he'd been forced to detach
himself from their pain, because he had to in order to go on doing his job. But this time Town couldn't do that no
matter how hard he tried. He'd been as
close to A.J. as he was to Rick. And
that's what made it all so difficult.
Town
leaned forward in his chair and laid a hand on Rick's left knee. He gave it a light squeeze.
"I
know, Rick. I know. Because I couldn't bear to find that out
either."
Chapter
3
(6
Months Earlier)
May,
1992
He
tried so hard not to scream. He bit his
lower lip until blood seeped through his front teeth. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction they derived from his
pain. But he knew his stubbornness
would ultimately do him no good. They'd
just keep on kicking him, and slapping him, and beating the already bruised and
broken spots with their fists and booted feet.
They'd just keep on until he passed out. And when he came, to he might find brief respite or he might
not. It just depended on what their
orders were.
He
didn't know how long he'd been here, or even where he was other than in a
basement of some kind that had no windows and a heavy steel door that was
always bolted. All he knew was that
between the repeated beatings, and the lack of food and water, he was slowly
losing his grip on reality. He no
longer knew for certain who he was. And the person he thought for so long would
come to his rescue, was becoming a vague figure in the back of his mind as
well.
Two
floors above the captive a handsome man with dark hair and olive skin, walked
out onto the sun-drenched patio of the expansive hacienda. He played with the
thick silver band on his right ring finger.
The raised head of a black wolf stood up from the surface of the
expensive ornament.
The
man didn't turn around when the sound of boot heels lightly scraped the patio's
cement surface. He barely glanced at
the burly man who joined him at the smooth white railing. They both squinted as they looked out over
the barren, bleached desert.
The
burly man finally shifted position. He
turned around and leaned his bulk against the marble railing. "What are you going to do with
him?"
The
reply was so crisp and eloquently spoken that it made one realize English was
not the handsome man's native language.
"That
is my concern."
"You
can't keep him forever, Eduardo. The
longer he's here...alive...the bigger the risk of someone finding him."
"No
one will find him."
"But
I was just thinking--"
Eduardo
spun around. His voice was tight and hinted a warning. "I do not pay you to think,
Baily."
Carson
Baily waited until the glint of rage left Eduardo's eyes. He had long experience with the Agilar
family. He had worked for Eduardo's
father, Androu, for twenty-five years.
And, as well, had worked for Androu's oldest son, Roberto, when Roberto
had reached manhood and began to help run the family business. But now both Androu and Roberto were
dead. They'd been killed five years
earlier. Androu’s death had been caused by the brother of the blond man being held
captive in the cellar. The bullet that
killed Roberto came from the rifle of the blond captive. The blond captive Baily and three
accomplices had kidnapped ago months back on instructions from Eduardo.
Some
would say Carson Baily was a hired gun.
A henchman who disposed of undesirable persons or situations for a wealthy
Salvadoran family. And Carson supposed,
in truth, they'd be correct. But he'd
been doing the job far too long to walk away from it now. Besides, one didn't walk away from a
position like his. It wasn't an
option. Androu Agilar had made that clear
many years earlier. And for as much as
Baily had respected Androu, and even Roberto, he had long ago come to fear
Androu's youngest son, Eduardo. Carson
wasn't so sure Eduardo wasn't half loco.
He'd never met anyone so cold and calculating. Never met anyone so devoid of feeling and bent on revenge.
The
intense afternoon Mexican sun caused Baily to seek shelter underneath the
patio's overhang. Just the few short
minutes he'd exposed himself to the sun’s direct light had left his shirt
clinging to him like a wet dishrag. He
dipped his six foot five inch frame to the side to avoid walking into a hanging
plant. When Baily turned to face
Eduardo once again he no longer had to squint.
Even though the temperature was one hundred and twenty degrees, Carson
noticed the Salvadoran didn't have so much as a bead of perspiration on
him. His black cotton shirt and pants
were crisp and dry, and lacking even the slightest of wrinkles. For some reason Satan came to mind as Carson
Baily stood looking at Eduardo Agilar.
"I'm
simply saying that I need to know what you're going to do with him,"
Carson stated. "He can't take many
more beatings. If you intend for him to
die, then so be it."
Eduardo's
smile was both evil and full of pleasure.
"Oh, I do not intend for our guest to die, Carson. His suffering has only just begun."
Carson
didn't succeed in keeping the impatience out of his voice. "But I just finished telling you he's
not long for this world. Not if you
want us to keep working him over every few hours. This has been going on since March. Quite frankly, I'm surprised he wasn't pushin' up daisies three
weeks ago."
"That's
the joy of Mr. Simon, Carson. He has
guts, as you Americans say. I admire
that in a man. Unfortunately, in the
long run his perseverance will do him no good.
By the time he leaves here I intend to see to it that he is nothing more
than a babbling idiot."
"Leaves
here?"
"Yes. Leaves here. Why would I want to keep him?
However, he cannot go until I have derived all the fun I can out of him.
That may take the better part of the summer.
Maybe even on into the fall."
Eduardo shrugged. "Only
time will tell."
"But
you said he was leaving here. Where's
he going?"
Eduardo
chuckled softly. "I do not know,
Carson. And that is where the fun
really begins. When the time comes you
will dump our guest on the side of the road somewhere far away from here...and
far away from San Diego."
Carson
Baily couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"But as soon as we let him loose he'll go to the cops. He'll be able to tell them everything. Who we are, where he was, how--
Eduardo
pushed himself away from the railing.
He walked over and placed a solicitous arm around Carson's
shoulders. "You overestimate Senor
Simon, Carson. While his stamina is to
be admired, I will eventually break him.
Trust me, A.J. Simon will not know his own name when he is finally
allowed to leave here. Nor will he be
able to relay what happened to him. I
shall see to it that his mind is scarred for the rest of his days on this
planet."
Carson
Baily still thought it was too much of a risk to take. Who really knew what would happen once
Simon's mind and body were given a chance to heal?
"Why
not just kill him, Eduardo? Just kill
him and get it over with."
"Kill
him? Kill him you say? Oh no, Carson. That would be much too good
for him. And too good for his brother. You see, Carson, A.J. Simon permanently
separated me from my brother, and now I intend to permanently separate him from
his. And Rick Simon will suffer, as
well, for all the pain he has caused me.
So help me God, Rick and A.J. Simon will pay for what they did to my
family for the rest of their lives.
Rick Simon will pay by dreaming of his brother's face night after night
in his sleep. He will pay by wondering
what happened to his beloved baby brother each and every waking hour.
"And
A.J. Simon," Eduardo smiled like a sly fox, "A.J. Simon will pay
by wandering the streets of some strange city for the remainder of his
days. To anyone who bothers to notice
him, he will be nothing more than another of the indigent homeless."
Carson
attempted one last argument. He hadn't
been in the business of silencing people for as long as he had without knowing
there was safety in death.
"But you
can't be sure, Eduardo. You can't be
sure what you have planned for Simon will disable his mental facilities on a
permanent basis."
Eduardo's
hand tightened painfully on Baily's shoulder.
The sun glistened ominously off his silver ring. "Ah, but you are so wrong about that,
Carson. For that is the one thing I
know as fact. Trust me. A.J. Simon will be muy loco when he finally
leaves us. Muy loco."
Eduardo
looked out over the sun-glazed desert with a satisfied smile. "Very crazy."
Chapter
4
Wednesday,
November 11th, 1992
The
eastern sky was streaked with the first pastels of dawn when the man coughed
himself awake. The effort it took to
clear his lungs hurt so bad that he had to bite back a cry of pain. His rib cage was tender, as if bones there
had been cracked or broken in recent months.
When he recalled bits and pieces of what atrocities had occurred to
cause him such discomfort a searing pain sliced through his forehead, reminding
him that some things were better off forgotten.
The
aggravated coughs woke the black man sleeping against the brick wall across the
alley. Malachi studied the isolated
stranger a long moment, then pushed himself to his feet with a groan. Other sleepers were stirring a bit
underneath the old coats and rags they were using as blankets, but none did
more than roll over and fall into a deeper slumber.
Malachi
crossed the twelve foot wide alley. He
stood over the stranger until the man looked up at him. Like the rest of the homeless sleepers
sharing this alley, Malachi had a checkered past. But he wasn't a cruel man and never had been. Not since Vietnam had he ever willingly hurt
another individual. And even then he
didn't want to do it. Funny thing
though, Uncle Sam didn't leave him much choice if he desired to survive another
day.
Malachi
hated what he saw in the blue eyes that now looked up at him. A mixture of pain, fear, and confusion. But oddly enough, he also saw stubborn
resilience. The man's body was taut as
a bowstring, giving Malachi the impression that he wasn't going to roll over
and play dead if confronted. Whatever
this guy's story, he was a fighter, there was no doubt about that.
Malachi
eased himself down the wall. He was a
lanky man of six feet three inches tall with the broad nose, full lips, and
dark ebony skin of his African ancestors.
He kept his coarse hair cropped close to his skull. Flecks of gray dotted it like snow, making
it easy for an outside observer to accurately guess Malachi's age at somewhere
between forty-eight and fifty. He
slowly came to rest his butt on the blacktopped pavement. Its chill penetrated his thin khaki
trousers. He was careful not to move
too quickly. It wasn't his intention to
scare the stranger.
"Hey,"
Malachi said in quiet greeting.
"How are you doing? I've
seen you around, but I don't believe we've been properly introduced." Malachi held out a large hand. "I'm
Malachi."
The
blond didn't do any more than stare at the offered hand. After a long moment of silence the black man
let the hand drop.
Malachi's
tone was light, his ever-ready sense of humor prevalent. "How this is supposed to work, see, is that
I introduce myself to you and offer you my hand. Then you shake it, while introducing yourself to me. Should we try it again?"
Malachi
held out his hand once more. Again, the
offer of friendship was ignored.
"Okay,
so where you come from there's some sort of taboo against shaking hands. I can respect that. But how about your name? You must have one of those."
The
quiet man simply stared at his new companion.
Malachi
didn't let the man's unwillingness to communicate deter him. He had a feeling the guy was in bad need of
a friend.
"As I said,
Malachi's my name. Malachi Isaiah
Calwell. What a handle, huh? My mama christened me such with the hope
I'd grow up to save misguided souls from the fires of hell. Believe it or not, I even entertained the
notion of becoming a man of the pulpit many years ago. But a trip to the jungles of Nam sidetracked
that ambition."
Malachi
didn't miss the sharp look that was thrown in his direction. Nor the pale brows that furrowed together in
puzzlement. Obviously something about
Vietnam struck a cord with the reclusive stranger.
"Yeah,
I was there. Marine Corp., third
division. How about you? Did you put in some time fighting
Charlie?"
Again,
Malachi received no answer. But then he
wasn't really expecting one.
"Maybe you did and you just don't remember. I've heard of that happening to other
vets. Or maybe you don't want to
remember. There's nothing wrong with that either. There are a good number of days when I don't care to remember the
experience myself."
The
man's harsh, tight cough interrupted Malachi's monologue. When it subsided, the blond pulled the thin
jacket closer around his torso and brought his knees up to huddle in a curled
ball of misery.
"Say,
I bet you’re not aware of the homeless shelter a few blocks from here, do
you? A pretty little gal I know
volunteers her time there three days a week.
She's a nurse over at Mercy Hospital.
I think we should have her take a look at you. And we can get you a warmer coat there, too. And if we're lucky maybe even another pair
of shoes. Ones that won't leave your
toes hanging out. How about it? You up to taking a little walk with me in a
few hours?"
In
the long pause that followed, it seemed to Malachi as though the man was weighing
whether or not he could trust him.
"Hey,
buddy, I won't steer you wrong.
Promise. See, I'm more or less
the man in charge of this alley. I
watch out for the people here. And even
though you wandered in on your own without an invitation, I still feel an
obligation toward you. Now I know
you're not feeling well, and I know you're cold. I promise you no one will hurt you, or try to take anything from
you that's yours." Malachi knew
that was an important issue amongst the homeless. They were very possessive of what few things they managed to
collect and call their own. That's why
they usually carried their meager possessions in bags or in packs slung over
their shoulders each time they left the alley.
Not that the blond fell into that category. From what Malachi could tell, about all he had to call his own
were the clothes on his back. Besides
the worn jacket and tennis shoes, that seemed to include nothing more than the
torn blue jeans and tattered, blood stained slate gray polo shirt he was
wearing. "So what do you
think? Will you come with me?"
The
stranger gave Malachi's offer lengthy consideration. A minute passed before he finally nodded his head.
"Good,"
Malachi nodded with satisfaction. "I'll let you know when I'm ready to go. She doesn't get there until ten o'clock, so
there's no use in leaving too soon.
It's early yet. I think I'll try
to get some more shuteye. You'd better
do the same."
Again
the stranger nodded.
As
Malachi started to rise to return to his makeshift bed of a cardboard box and
discarded blanket, he felt the back of a hand lightly swat his forearm
twice. He looked down to see that hand
extend upward toward him.
Malachi
smiled as he took the offered hand and shook it.
"Hi,
Friend. Nice to meet you."
The
blond man didn't say anything in return, but Malachi saw the barest hint of a
smile light his otherwise dull eyes.
Malachi had a feeling this was the first time in a long time, that
anyone had made an offer of friendship to this silent stranger.
Chapter
5
Wednesday,
November 11th, 1992
Dominique
Cascia was a diminutive woman of thirty years old and as Latin as her name
implied. Not Latin as in of Spanish
decent, but Latin as in a decedent of the Roman Emperors. Or so Dominique's father liked to
claim. As far as Dominique was
concerned, her family was as American as any other family in the affluent San
Francisco suburban neighborhood from which she hailed. She and her three sisters were the fourth
generation to be born in America on her mother's side, the third on her
father's. Nonetheless, her parents had kept alive many of the Roman Catholic
and old-world Italian traditions that had steeped their childhoods, when
raising their brood.
Dominique
and her sisters attended a Catholic grade school before advancing to an
all-girls Catholic high school. To say
none of the Cascia daughters were pleased by this turn of events was an
understatement. Each one of them, in
her own way, had tried to convince their parents to at least allow them to
attend a Catholic high school made up of both girls and boys. But the notion wasn't so much as entertained
for even a brief second, so from Dominique, the oldest, all the way down to
Vanessa, the youngest, the Cascia daughters spent their teen years at Our Lady
Of The Angels all-girls prep school.
Dominique
broke away from what she, at eighteen, perceived to be the rigid discipline of
her parents by going south to attend college at U.C.L.A. Her parents would have much preferred she
stay in San Francisco and attend the small private Catholic college they had
already earmarked for their daughters’ continued education. But Dominique was ready to test the waters
of adulthood and used the argument that U.C.L.A. was known to have the best
nursing program in the state. After
much thought, her parents reluctantly conceded to her choice. Now, twelve years later, Dominique felt it
had been the best thing for all of them.
Little by little her parents had learned to let go and allow their
daughters to make their own decisions, to the point that Dominique's youngest
sister was attending college clear across the country in South Carolina on a
volleyball scholarship.
Dominique
worked nights as a nursing supervisor in the emergency room at Mercy Hospital
located in the heart of San Francisco.
Granted, there were many less stressful positions available within the
medical community to a woman of her ambitions, intelligence, and education, but
Dominique thrived on the fast-paced, critical care environment of her floor.
The
young nurse had married her college sweetheart upon graduation, but the
marriage lasted just two years.
Dominique thought of the ill-fated union as the one big failure of her
life, and it was something she rarely discussed. All she ever said when asked was that she and her ex-husband had
been swept away in the tide of strong emotions first love brings, and didn't
stop to think as to whether or not that love was meant to survive a lifetime
together. It quickly became apparent it
wasn't.
For
the time being Dominique was happy with her life and the rewards it brought
her. She owned her own home in a quiet
suburb not far from her parents, where she lived with her cocker spaniel,
Adeline. She occasionally saw a young
intern who worked at another hospital, though she didn't consider the
relationship to be a serious one at the moment and neither did he. Their busy and often conflicting schedules
caused their dates to be sporadic at best.
Therefore, Dominique divided most of her time between Mercy Hospital and
the St. Jude's Shelter for the Homeless on 7th and Hallwell.
The
shelter was the pet project of the church Dominique had attended since
birth. When her priest, Father Francis Papanek,
had mentioned to her that he could use her nursing skills at the shelter on
occasion she was at first hesitant to volunteer. The inner-city world of poverty was foreign to her and
truthfully, not something she'd ever paid much attention to. But from her first morning there as a
rookie, Dominique had fallen in love with the work the shelter did and the
people who came there seeking aid.
Dominique
could be a harsh critic of the junkies and alcoholics who couldn't seem to get
off the drugs and booze long enough to turn their lives around. But she came to have an abundance of
sympathy for the families who were homeless because the father or mother was
out of a job, or for those whose mental facilities weren't what they should
be. The latter were the people
Dominique felt the most sorrow for. So
many of them had been abandoned by their families. They were left to wander the streets without adequate food or
shelter, or the ability to take care of themselves simply because a parent, or
spouse, or brother, or sister, couldn't bear to acknowledge the person as one
of their own. Dominique couldn't
imagine how such a shameful thing could happen when she thought of her own
loving family, and how much they'd each sacrifice to help one another.
The
building the shelter was housed in had been purchased by Dominique's church ten
years earlier when its members were looking for a way to support the community
through good works. It was an old two
story brick front structure that had at one time been a neighborhood grocery
store. The entire block was lined with
similar buildings, most abandoned now as this once quaint area was no longer
considered to be a desirable part of town.
On
Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays, Dominique volunteered her time at the shelter
from ten a.m. until three p.m., when she had to leave to report to work for the
start of her four to midnight shift. In
the event she was off-duty from the hospital one of those days, she stayed even
longer if someone was in need of her assistance. For the most part Dominique provided the only medical care the
majority of the homeless people would ever receive. She was a cross between doctor, nurse, sister, mother, teacher,
and friend. She did everything from
immobilizing sprained fingers, to cleaning and bandaging minor cuts, to getting
someone to Mercy's emergency room if the care he or she needed was more than
Dominique could provide. She didn't hesitate to scold those who didn't follow
her prescribed treatment, or those who'd turned back to the bottle for relief
from their day- to-day existence.
When
Dominique climbed in her warm bed every night she often thought of the homeless
she ministered to and wondered if it was really worth it. If she really made a
difference. If any of the volunteers
did. After all, it wasn't as though,
through their efforts, she saw the numbers of the homeless decrease. But rather, they only seemed to keep
increasing and that upset her. It was
like trying to empty the ocean by draining it with a teaspoon. Sometimes Dominique found herself praying
that God would show her she had indeed made a difference. That just one person would walk in the
shelter someday whom she didn't recognize because he was clean, and wearing
brand new clothes, and sporting a fresh haircut. That person would walk up to her and shake her hand, and tell
Dominique he had a job and a wonderful new life. It was then that Dominique would recognize the person as Will, or
Cal, or Shorty, or Sam, or any one of the others she'd come to think of as her
friends.
But
nothing like that had happened in the three years she'd been volunteering her
time at the shelter, and Dominique feared, short of a miracle, nothing like
that ever would. Ironically enough, at
those times she'd think of who the shelter was named for, St. Jude, the patron
saint of hopeless causes. She'd wonder
then if all she'd bought into was nothing but a hopeless cause.
For
some reason that didn't stop Dominique from returning right on schedule every
other day, and often on weekends as well, if the weather was especially chilly
and the shelter was short staffed. If
no one needed her in the capacity of nurse, she helped cook, serve food, or
made up beds.
The
central room of the shelter was a wide-open area containing two tattered
couches and a few cast off chairs provided by members of Dominique's
parish. A black steel desk with pock
sized dings in its metal sides resided here as well. Usually a volunteer manned the desk, helping those that entered
St. Jude’s obtain food, clothing, or a place to sleep. If the beds in this shelter were full, as
they usually were from December through March, then the volunteer called other
shelters in the area with the hope of finding someone in need a warm place to
spend the night.
Malachi
entered the shelter a few minutes after ten that morning with his new friend in
tow. Because it was so early in the day
things were quiet. The volunteer
receptionist pointed the way down the hall when Malachi, a familiar figure to
her, asked for Dominique.
The
hall contained a linen closet, a broom closet, and a room Dominique used as an
exam room that held medical supplies, but also doubled as the cluttered
administrative office of Father Papanek.
The priest was also the administrator of the grade school Dominique had
attended, so from September to May didn't appear at the shelter as often as he
would have liked. He was doubly
grateful then, for capable and reliable volunteers like Dominique.
At
the end of the hall was a door that opened to the men's communal showers and
bathroom. At one time it had been half
of the warehouse portion of the grocery store.
On the other side of the building was another hall that held a small
bathroom with two shower stalls for women and children. It wasn't nearly as large as what was
available for the men, but then the men who were living on the streets far
outweighed in number the women and children.
Of that, Dominique was thankful.
The
basement had been converted into a kitchen, cafeteria, and laundry room. The second floor above the reception area
was one massive open room with rows upon rows of cots, again for the men. The shelter preferred not to house women or
children unless it was an emergency.
They didn't have the space or the staffing to feel secure in providing
the women safety from any men who might have less than desirable
intentions. There were two other
shelters in the city that catered to women and/or families, so St. Jude's
directed them there. In the event those
shelters were full, cots were set up in the basement until something else could
be found.
It
was in the administrative office that Malachi found Dominique that day. She was dressed in black leggings, a black
turtleneck, and a knee length San Francisco 49ers sweatshirt. Her back was to the door as she took
inventory of the medical supplies in the one cabinet allowed her. Her dark hair was clean and glossy, and
shone like black shoe polish. It was
bobbed all the way around her head, similar in style to a little boy's cut, and
made her look all of twelve years old.
Her eyes were as dark as Malachi's, umber orbs with flecks of cinnamon
around the pupils. She was on her
tiptoes trying to take inventory of a top shelf her five foot one inch frame
made it difficult to see.
Malachi
walked up behind her. "Can I give
you a hand, Doctor Dom?"
Dominique
didn't have to turn around to know who had entered the room. Among the homeless she'd met in the last
three years, Malachi was the one she'd grown closest to. And the first one who'd begun referring to
her as Doctor Dominique, and then later, simply as Doctor Dom. He was also the one who left her the most
puzzled. He didn't drink or do drugs as
far as she knew. And he'd mentioned at
one time that he was college educated.
He was always as neat and clean as possible, considering his living
conditions. Malachi also took seriously
what he deemed his responsibilities when it came to the other homeless people
in the area. He looked out for them,
and helped those who were unable to help themselves. He couldn't stand to see another human being suffering, and was
very protective of the people who sought shelter in what he referred to as
Beulah Land. In other words, the alley
he called home. Dominique had asked Malachi
once why he called the alley Beulah Land.
He told her a passage in the Bible referred to Israel as such, and that
in the book, Pilgrim's Progress, Beulah Land was thought to be a place
of peace and rest near the end of life's journey.
Dominique
smiled now as she looked up into Malachi's dark face. "Hi, Malachi. Nice
to see you. And yes, I could use your
help. Would you please write down
what's on that top shelf for me?"
Dominique
passed her clipboard and pen off to Malachi and took a step backwards. She gave
a little cry when she bumped into the grimy man standing behind her. He was so quiet she hadn't even heard him
come in with Malachi and wasn't sure at first, if they were together.
"I'm
sorry," she apologized.
The
man looked down at her, but didn't say anything. He did, however, take a step
backwards to give her more room.
Malachi
turned from his work. "This
is...my new friend, Doc. Friend, this
is Doctor Dominique."
Dominique
held her hand out to the man. He backed
away from her again, staring at her hand as if he wasn't sure of what she
intended to do with it.
Over
his shoulder Malachi said, "He's
not much on shaking hands."
"Oh." Dominique's hand dropped and she gave the
stranger a welcoming smile despite the fact his silence unnerved her. "Well, nice to meet you anyway. How'd you come to know Malachi?"
Malachi
finished the inventory for Dominique and laid the clipboard and pen on Father
Papenek's desk. "He's not much on
talking either."
Dominique
threw Malachi a look that broadcast a number of questions.
"I'll
tell you about it in a little while.
First off, I was hoping my friend here could get a shower and maybe some
clean clothes and a new coat. The
nights are getting pretty cold."
Dominique
had no doubt the man was in bad need of a shower. If her years in nursing hadn't given her such an inhibited gag
reflex she'd have been in the ladies room by now.
"Then
I'd like you to take a look at him, Doc.
I think he's feeling a little under the weather."
Just
then, the strange man coughed a tight, unproductive cough that caused him to
grimace and grasp his rib cage.
"Yes,
I can see that," Dominique agreed.
"All those things sound like good ideas, Malachi. Come on, you two. Follow me."
Dominique
brushed past the silent man. It wasn't
lost on her that he waited for Malachi to exit the room before trailing both of
them down the bright yellow hall. They
passed the showers and walked out a metal door that led them to another part of
the old warehouse that had been left in its original state. It was a chilly, vast room with a concrete
floor and metal walls. Clothing of all
kinds was hanging from metal racks on wheels, or folded neatly on tables. Row after row of shoes lined the floor
underneath the tables. More clothing
and shoes were in cardboard boxes and paper grocery bags waiting to be gone
through by the volunteers who came in over the weekend. Dominique's church held two large clothing
drives each year for the benefit of the men, women, and children who used the
shelter. They were in the midst of
their fall drive now, encouraging parishioners and others in their well-to-do
neighborhood to clean out their closets and donate warm clothing, shoes, and coats
of all sizes, or spend a few dollars on new hats, gloves, and mittens to be
donated as well. People not familiar
with San Francisco didn't realize how cold the temperatures could dip in the
winter. And while thirty-five degrees
might not sound that frigid to a hardy mid-westerner, try sleeping outside in
nothing but a thin pair of pants and a flimsy cotton jacket on such a
night.
"I
can get you started,” Dominique said to the man as though she often carried on
detailed conversations with people who chose not to give her a verbal response. "And we'll always help you out in the
event of an emergency. No one is ever
turned away from St. Jude's. But after
today you'll have to pay for what you take from here, either in money or work
tickets."
Dominique
turned to Malachi. "Did you
explain our system to him?"
The
black man shook his head. "Not
yet."
St.
Jude's benefited the homeless, while at the same time encouraging them to make
an effort at helping themselves. As
Dominique said, no one in need was ever turned away, and the two meals they
served each day were always free.
However, the staff encouraged those that were able to find work so they
could pay a small price in order to receive the clothing, toiletries, and
shelter St. Jude's provided. What
little money the shelter raised this way, in the end, only benefited the men
who used it by being put back in the shelter’s modest treasury.
For
the men who couldn't secure outside employment for whatever reason, St. Jude's
offered them jobs in the kitchen, or laundry room, or as janitors or clothing
sorters. In exchange, the men received
tickets they could use as currency at the shelter in order to purchase things
ranging from a toothbrush to a new coat.
It wasn't a perfect system; Dominique would be the first to admit
that. She had yet to see very many men
show up and work on a frequent basis.
More often than not they worked until they earned enough 'money' for a
new pair of gloves, then you didn't see them again until they needed another a
pair. But, the overtaxed shelter's volunteer
staff could use whatever help they could get, so the system had stayed in place
and been perfected over time.
Dominique
explained all this to the quiet stranger.
When she was done she asked him if he understood. A small nod of his head indicated he
did. Dominique pointed to three racks
of clothing. "Feel free to pick
out a new pair of pants, a shirt, and a pair of shoes. You can leave what you have on here. I can tag them for you and put them in with
the rest of the laundry. You can pick them up the day after tomorrow."
Dominque
studied the man's ragged shirt and blue jeans.
She had serious doubts the clothing would survive the rigors of the
washing machine. She wondered how many
months he'd been wearing them, and how they'd come to be spattered with what
looked to be dried blood. "Or you
can simply throw them away if you prefer."
The
man looked at Malachi. The black man
nodded as if to tell his new friend everything Dominique explained was on the
up and up.
"Malachi,
why don't you help him pick out the clothes he needs. I'll be back in a minute."
Malachi
moved along with the silent man until they came to a section of pants that
looked like they'd fit him. In short
order he retrieved a pair of blue cotton trousers, then moved over to a rack of
shirts. Again, he didn't ask for
Malachi's assistance, but quickly found a long sleeve plaid oxford shirt that
appeared to be his size. He then tried
on a several pairs of shoes before settling on a pair of ankle high lace-up
hiking boots that looked like they'd barely been worn. Malachi nodded his approval of the choice,
and said they'd weather the winter rains quite nicely.
Dominique
returned with a sturdy white plastic bag in her hand. It contained three new pairs of jockey shorts and two new pairs
of socks, two new handkerchiefs, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, a bar
of soap, a plastic bottle of shampoo, a package of disposable razors, a can of
shaving cream, a can of deodorant, fingernail clippers, and a comb.
"I see you've
picked out your clothes. Here are a few
other things to help get you started."
The
man hesitated.
Dominique
smiled. "It's okay. You can take it. Everything that's in here is yours now."
The
man studied her a long moment before reaching out and taking the bag from
her. It seemed to Dominique he feared
she'd take it away from him. Feared
that she was toying with him for some reason.
She began to wonder what had happened to this man to make him so silent
and skittish.
Dominique's
eyes lingered on the stranger before traveling to Malachi. "Please show him where the showers are,
Malachi. I'll go convert the office to
an exam room while he's cleaning up.
When we're finished, he can come back here and pick out a coat, hat, and
pair of gloves."
"Okay,
Doc," Malachi agreed. "Come
on, Friend."
The
man followed Malachi back out the door and down the hall, Dominique in their
wake. Ten minutes later Malachi joined
the nurse in the office.
"Where's
our new friend?" She asked.
"Still
in the shower. And from the sounds of
things he doesn't plan on coming out anytime soon."
Dominique
chuckled. "From the way he smelled
I'd say that's a good idea." She
crossed over to sit on the corner of the wooden desk whose old top was marred
with carvings from a pocketknife and stained with coffee rings. Malachi took a seat in the only chair in the
room, which sat behind the desk.
"What
do you know about him, Malachi?"
"To
tell you the truth, little lady, about as much as you do. He showed up in Beulah Land two weeks
ago. He doesn't talk to anyone, but he
doesn't make any trouble either. He
just keeps to himself. Lately he's been
coughing a lot and not looking very well.
Now you know, I take pride in the fact that no one's ever gone to meet
his maker while finding shelter in my alley.
I didn't want this guy to be the first.
So this morning I struck up a conversation with him."
"He
talks to you?"
"No,"
Malachi shook his head. "He hasn't
said a word to me. As I said, I
struck up a conversation with him. I
never said he conversed back."
Dominique
smiled at Malachi's humor.
"So
I told him about this place, and about you.
I asked him if he'd come with me if I brought him here. He nodded his head yes, so here we
are."
"Is
he an alcoholic?"
"Not
that I'm aware of. At least I've never seen him with a bottle, or acting
drunk."
"How
about drugs?"
"Not
that I've seen. And I've never seen him
acting like he's stoned, or on a trip or anything."
"Then
mentally?"
Malachi
wrinkled his brow in thought. "I
don't know about that either. A week
ago I would have told you I didn't think the guy had all his marbles, but now I
believe I'd be wrong about that. He
seems to understand everything I say to him.
And everything you've said to him, as well. And he sure hasn't done anything yet that would lead me to think
he's got bats in his belfry."
Dominique
smiled. "Except show up in Beulah
Land and not speak to anyone."
"Bingo. So I suppose that proves something isn't
connecting right in that noggin of his, doesn't it?"
"I
don't know," Dominique shrugged.
"You live there. So far the
only difference I can discern between you and your new friend is that you smell
better and talk more."
Malachi
laughed, but didn't take the bait. In
the three years Dominique had known him, she'd tried to get him to tell her
about his past on more than one occasion.
So far her efforts had proved futile.
What little she knew about Malachi were the every day surface things
that were plain to observe. Where he
came from, what brought an educated, eloquent, caring man such as Malachi to an
alley full of homeless people in San Francisco she had no idea. She wondered if she ever would.
Before
the nurse could probe any further Malachi rose. "I'd better go see how my friend's doing. I wouldn't want him sneaking out the back on
us."
It
was another ten minutes before Malachi reappeared in the office. His friend hesitated in the doorway.
Dominique
turned around at the sound of their footsteps.
She had to swallow back a gasp upon catching sight of the stranger. Freshly showered, in clean clothes, and
divested of the dirty beard and moustache he'd been sporting, made it easy to
see he was an extremely handsome man.
Far better looking than Dominique would have guessed him to be only
forty-five minutes ago. His wet hair
was neatly combed and hung thick and heavy to the middle of his neck. In the back it fell below his shirt
collar. She could see strands of it
drying to become the color of sun-bleached oats. Its earlier appearance had led
her to believe he was a brunette. Now
she realized that was nothing more than God only knew how many weeks worth of
caked in grime.
And
now that his hair was off his face she could see, as well, the flaxen lashes
and eyebrows that framed his startling sky blue eyes. He almost seemed to be a different man entirely, and for just a
brief second Dominique thought of asking Malachi if this was a joke. Thought of asking Malachi what he'd done
with the man he'd come in with.
However,
the blond's silence, punctuated by harsh intermittent coughs, and his coltish
demeanor did, in fact, mark him as the man Malachi referred to simply as
Friend.
Malachi
sat the white bag of toiletries the blond had used on top of a filing cabinet
for the time being. "There's no
need to worry about washing his other things.
He decided to throw them away."
Dominique
nodded. "That's fine."
The
nurse had cleared off the desk while the men were gone. She looked at the blond, then indicated to
the desk with a nod of her head.
"For lack of anything better, we'll use this as an exam table. Come on over and have a seat."
When
the blond didn't move from the doorway Dominique crossed the room. She reached out a hand and gently grasped
his upper arm. She could feel his body
stiffen and he pulled back slightly.
"It's
okay," she said in the same soft tone she used with frightened
children. "You can trust me, I'm
not going to hurt you. I just want to
listen to your lungs and heart. Maybe
take your temperature and look in your ears and throat. But nothing more. I promise."
The
man's eyes flicked to Malachi.
"Go
ahead, Friend," the black man gently encouraged. "Let Doctor Dom take a look at you. Like she said, she's not going to hurt
you. No one is."
After
another long moment of indecision, the blond finally allowed Dominique to lead
him to the desk. She turned her back to
him as she sifted through her medical bag, pulled on a pair of latex gloves,
and asked him to remove his shirt.
Malachi's
sharp intake of breath made the nurse swivel around. She couldn't hide her shock as her dark eyes widened.
"Who did this to you?" Came her
automatic question.
The
automatic question she, of course, got no answer to. The man's chest and shoulders were covered with tiny molten
bruises that could only leave Dominique guessing as to what his body had looked
like a few weeks earlier. She walked
around to observe his back, only to discover it in the same condition. Small round discolored splotches the sizes
of nickels, dimes, and quarters were just beginning to fade, and ran from his
neck to his waist. She supposed in a
few more weeks the places would be healed over completely, leaving no signs of
the torture the man had evidently endured.
She looked over at Malachi to see him shaking his head in despair.
Dominique
walked back to stand in front of the blond.
She gently grasped his wrist and studied his left forearm. It, as well, was dotted with small
bruises. When she looked closer she
discovered needle marks. A quick
glimpse of his right arm found it to be in the same condition.
She
stood back and looked him in the eye.
"I'm going to ask you something and I want the truth. But only because I need to know in order to
help you, not because I'll go to the police.
Are you a drug user?"
For
the first time the blond man met and held Dominique's eyes. It was as if with that contact he was trying
to tell her what he couldn't say.
"You're
not, are you?" She guessed.
He
shook his head back and forth in a negative gesture.
"Then
someone did this to you? Someone
purposefully hurt you for some reason?"
This
time Dominique got no answer, and the blue eyes dropped to the man's lap. For some odd reason Dominique didn't think
his eyes dropped in fear, but rather that they dropped in shame.
Dominique
could barely stand to be a part of the sorrow and hopelessness that suddenly
seemed to radiate from the man. She
cleared her throat and got down to the business at hand. She listened to his heart and lungs, took
his temperature, and looked in his ears and throat. She didn't bother to ask him to say 'ah' when doing the latter
because she assumed he wouldn't.
Although she was no dentist, she noticed his teeth were well cared
for. She assumed that meant he had, in
the recent past, lived a lifestyle that afforded him the luxury of proper
dental hygiene and regular dental checkups.
When Dominique was done she sat her
instruments aside and gently probed her patient's ribs. He pulled away from her in pain. She wasn't positive if he had some cracked
ribs, or if some had been broken at one time and were just beginning to
heal. He did the same when she touched
his right shoulder. She couldn't detect
anything broken there, but thought the joint seemed loose in its socket, as
though it had been dislocated within the past few months.
When
she was finally finished, Dominique took a step back so she could look him in
the eyes once again. "So, what's the deal here, fella? Did you get in the losing end of a fight
with a raging bull or what?"
She
didn't expect the reaction she got. The
blond man smiled at her and nodded his head yes. Dominique looked over at Malachi. "Well, Malachi, looks like your friend is our kinda
guy. He's got a good sense of
humor."
"I
see that," Malachi acknowledged from where he'd been quietly watching the
medical exam from the far side of the room.
He'd been on the alert at first, not knowing if his strange new friend
would try to bolt the minute Dominique attempted to touch him. But as the exam progressed, and the blond
sat passively through it, Malachi relaxed and observed. "How is he?"
"I'd
say he's definitely got bronchitis.
He’s running a slight temperature, but nothing to be too concerned
about. And his ribs have been broken or
cracked at one time or another. As
well, his shoulder has been dislocated.
He should go to the hospital for X-rays--"
Malachi
groaned, knowing what a trip to the county hospital meant for a homeless
person. Most would rather die than do
go there. It was nothing but endless
hassles, prolonged waiting in a room crowded with gunshot victims, drug addicts
on bad trips, drunks, and cops, not to mention the rudeness on the part of a
good deal of the staff. He hardly
thought his skittish friend was up to dealing with such an atmosphere.
"Can't
you just patch him up here?"
"I'll
see what I can do," Dominique reluctantly promised. "I'll tape his ribs for the time being
and check him again next week. If
they're still as tender as they are now...well, I'll figure something out. Maybe I can sneak him into Mercy under the
guise that he's my brother."
Malachi
looked from the olive complexioned, dark headed Dominique, to the fair skinned
blond stranger. "Yeah," he
deadpanned. "And you can tell them
I'm your cousin."
Dominique
laughed. "Okay, okay. I see your point. Whatever. I'll figure something out if need be. I'll also get Dr. Havshall to write a
prescription for this bronchitis."
Dr.
Kevin Havshall was a member of Dominique's church, and on staff at a hospital
in Oakland. He volunteered his medical
services at St. Jude's one Saturday a month.
In-between times, Dominique touched base with him if a patient needed
something like an antibiotic.
"He'll
probably give me penicillin and a cough syrup of some type. I'll see if I can get them yet today. If I can't, I'll drop them by here tomorrow
morning on my way home from wo..."
Before
Dominique could finish her sentence she felt the barest of touches on her
arm. She turned in surprise to see the
stranger shaking his head.
"What?" She questioned gently. "I'm not sure what you're trying to
tell me."
Malachi
spoke up from his observation point across the room. "He started shaking
his head when you mentioned Dr. Havshall giving you penicillin."
Dominique
turned back to face her patient.
"Are you allergic to penicillin?
Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
The
head nodded yes.
Dominique
exchanged a quick glance with Malachi before focusing on the blond man once
more. "Good. That's very good. I'll make sure he doesn't give you that, or anything related to
it."
Dominique
moved to the cabinet and returned with a long, wide strip of bandage. While she went about taping the man's ribs
she gave him stern instructions on how he was to take care of himself over the
next week. Whether those instructions
would do any good Dominique didn't know.
In her past experiences with other homeless men more often than not they
hadn't, but that didn't keep her from trying.
Dominique
also decided to draw blood on the man just to make sure there weren't any other
nasty infections floating around in his system, like AIDS. With the needle marks on his arms it was a
very real possibility. She asked his
permission to do the procedure, though she didn't mention AIDS when told him
what she was going to have his blood tested for.
The
blond gave a reluctant nod of his head.
Dominique didn't blame him for the fear she saw in his eyes, or for the
way his body tightened like a taunt guitar string as she tied a rubber strap
around his arm to make a vein more prominent.
Whatever someone had recently done to the man that caused the needle
tracks on his arms had surely left a lasting impression with him.
The
nurse made certain her patient saw her remove the brand new needle and syringe
from a sealed packet. She shuddered to
think what the conditions were of the needles that had been used on him
before. She could only pray they'd been
halfway sanitized.
Dominique
held the syringe up. "See,"
she said with a smile of reassurance,
"it's empty. I'm not going
to inject you with anything. I'm simply
taking a sample of your blood like we just discussed."
Dominique
talked softly to her patient so he wouldn't bolt on her, and in the process
cause her to accidentally hurt him.
"You've got
nice fat veins. That will make this job
easy and quick. Of course you'll feel
the prick of the needle, but after that it’ll be downhill. I'm going to avoid these bruises. I don't want to cause you any undue
pain."
The
blond watched her every move, but didn't pull away. Dominique got the impression her honesty and gentleness with him
earned her a small portion of his trust.
When she was finished she labeled the vial of blood, secured it in a
plastic container, and put it in her medical bag. She'd get one of the lab techs at Mercy to run the tests on it
she wanted done, and would pay for it out of her own pocket.
The
nurse turned her attention back to her patient as she placed a Band-Aid over
the tiny puncture wound she'd just made in his arm. "Now I want you to eat here twice a day. Breakfast is at seven and supper's at
six. Malachi will come with you."
Dominique
occasionally saw Malachi eat at the shelter, but not very often. Usually he only brought someone in who was
in need of help like this stranger.
Where he ate, showered, and sought shelter when he needed it Dominique
didn't know. That was yet another
mystery surrounding the black man.
"Oh,
Doc," Malachi protested. "Now
I don't have any reason to eat here.
There are others who need it more than me."
"That's
right, Malachi. There are,"
Dominique stated sternly. "Such as
your friend here. I'd say he's at least
twenty pounds underweight for his height.
But I'd also guess he won't come here unless you come with him. So how about it? At least for a little while?
At least until he's comfortable coming on his own, or with some of the
other men?"
Malachi looked into the blue eyes that
seemed to waiting for his answer. He
had the feeling if he said no, he wouldn't come, then his new friend wouldn't
either.
"All
right. I'll bring him twice a day for a
while. At least until he learns the
ropes for himself."
Dominique
smiled. "Thanks, Malachi. And while you're here, let's sign you two up
for a couple of beds tonight."
"Doctor
Dom! You know I don't like to sleep
outside of Beulah Land."
"Malachi,
he needs a warm bed tonight. And for a
few nights to come."
Malachi
gave a heavy sigh and acted as though he was going to leave a mansion full of
valuables unattended. "Okay,
okay. I suppose I can put Will in
charge of things for a few days."
Dominique
smiled to herself at this man's loyalty to a band of homeless people who lived
in an alley. More people should care as
much as he did.
The
nurse completed her work and told her patient he could put his shirt back
on. When he finished buttoning the last
button he stood. Malachi grabbed the
white bag off the filing cabinet.
"Thanks,
Doctor Dominique."
"My
pleasure." Dominique led the way
out the door. "Let's go back and have a look through the coats and
hats. Pick out something for yourself
as well, Malachi. This one's on the
house."
Dominique
wasn't surprised by her friend's reply.
"No, thanks. I've got all I
need. But maybe I'll take a rain check
on that offer. I'll probably run across
someone else one of these days who can use a warm coat."
The
nurse didn't hide the affection in her reply.
"Knowing you, Malachi, I wouldn't doubt it."
They
entered the warehouse again, Dominique flipping on the light switch as they
passed. She led the two men to a long
rack of coats. Hats, gloves, and
mittens, in sizes ranging from children's to men's, lined a table near the
coats.
With
a wave of her hand Dominique offered the blond man, "Have at it."
She
stood back and watched as he carefully went through the rack. There was no doubt he was an intelligent
man. His effort to communicate to her
that he was allergic to penicillin proved that. And now he was looking over each and every coat as if trying to
decide which would be the best choice for the upcoming change in weather. He finally chose a water-repellant winter
coat with deep kangaroo pockets. The
coat zipped up the front and had snaps over the zipper for additional closure
and warmth. It contained a hood and
came to almost to his knees in length.
Although Dominique knew it had been donated, she doubted it had ever
been worn before.
How fortunate those of us are who have more
than we need, she thought fleetingly.
And the sad thing is we don't even realize it.
"Good
choice," Dominique praised.
"Now find yourself a hat and gloves."
The
blond man shook his head as if trying to say he'd already been given too
much. Dominique was touched. So many people from all walks of life did
nothing but take, take, take, and never gave back. But here this man was already trying to tell her she'd done too
much for him, when she knew she hadn't done nearly enough.
"Go
ahead," she encouraged.
"Remember I told you this was your one and only chance at a
freebie. Go for it."
There
it was again. His smile. It was a beautiful smile. She wondered where his family was. How could anyone allow this to happen to
such a sweet and thoughtful man? He
must have someone somewhere. A mother or a father. A sister or a brother. How could they have abandoned him? It made Dominique furious to think
about.
While
the blond tried on a pair of gloves to make certain they fit, Dominique talked
softly to Malachi. "Do you think I
should go to the police about his condition?"
Malachi
had seen too many homeless people in similar shape to know that the police
wouldn't give Dominique the time of day.
"What good
would it do you? It's not as if he can
tell them what happened to him, and even if he can. I have a feeling he
won't. Look how jittery he was with
you. If you try to take him to the cops
I'm afraid he'll simply run away."
Dominique
sighed. "You're probably
right."
In
short order the quiet man had found himself a pair of gloves. Dominique wondered what he was doing as he searched
through the hats while being careful not to disturb their order. A knit winter hat was a knit winter hat,
wasn't it?
When
he came up with one that was maroon she realized the reason behind his
meticulous quest. He had been looking
for a hat that matched the color of his coat, and he had indeed, found
one. Again, Dominique wondered about
this man and where he'd come from. He
might even prove to be more puzzling to her than Malachi was.
The
blond came to stand by Dominique and Malachi when he was finished.
"Do
you two have everything you need?"
The nurse questioned.
Malachi
looked over the clothes the blond held, and then down at the bag he was
carrying for his new friend. "Yep,
Doctor Dom, it looks like we're ready to go.
Thanks for your help. My friend
thanks you, too."
Dominique
gave it one last shot at getting this stranger to talk. The exam she'd done of his throat hadn't
revealed any damage that would lead her to believe he couldn't speak for
physical reasons. But the final word on
that would have to come from a specialist, and she doubted one would ever be
willing to look at him. To many doctors
this silent blond would be just another homeless man who was mentally ill.
"I
like to call my friends by name," Dominique said. "So does Malachi. Now I'd hate like heck to call you John, as
in John Doe, but if you don't give me a better suggestion I guess that's what
I'm going to have to do. How about
it? Do we call you John, or is there
another name you go by?"
The
blond's brows etched together as he contemplated Dominique's words. She didn't know if it was she who was more
caught by surprise, or Malachi, when a raspy voice in barely above a whisper
offered, "Jack."
"Jack?" Dominique questioned. "Your name is Jack?"
There
was a long moment of hesitation before the blond man nodded his head.
"Jack
what?"
It
appeared to Dominique as though the man was concentrating hard in an effort to
answer her question. Finally, he gave a
disheartened shrug of his left shoulder.
"I
don't...know. Just Jack. My name is...Jack."
Chapter
6
Early
January, 1993
No
matter how hard he tried to avoid getting so much as a glimpse of a calendar,
Rick Simon was all too aware of each passing day. Aware that they were rapidly approaching the tenth month of
A.J.'s absence as he turned the calendar in the Simon and Simon office from
December of 1992, to January of 1993.
Rick
sat back in his chair and emitted a heavy sigh. He ran a hand over eyes that felt like they never got enough
sleep anymore, and caressed the temples that always seemed to be nursing a
headache.
In
the months since A.J. disappeared, Rick had kept Simon and Simon Investigations
afloat, but that didn't mean there weren't plenty of days when he would have
preferred not to. Some days A.J.'s
presence seemed to be so strong within the office that Rick had to race out the
door to get away from the reminders he couldn't bear to run across. All it took was for him to find a handwritten
note of A.J.'s in a file, or for a piece of mail to arrive addressed to Mr.
Andrew Simon, or for a salesman to call asking to speak to A.J.
Two
weeks earlier Rick had accidentally knocked his brother's coffee mug off the
ledge behind A.J.'s desk. Rick had
given it to him years ago. It was the only one A.J. used at the office. It was navy blue, and had a large A. and
large J. embossed on the front in gold.
Rick's
elbow sent the mug sailing into the brick wall, causing it to shatter into a
multitude of little pieces. The
detective slowly crouched down to assess the damage. He carefully shuffled an index finger through the remains. It was obvious the mug was beyond
repair. The detective pulled the
garbage can over and began to carefully discard the broken ceramic. Each time a piece of the mug pinged off the
bottom of the metal can it was as if to Rick, he was throwing away a part of
A.J. He realized the thought was foolish,
but that didn't stop his throat from swelling, nor did it prevent hot tears
from welling up in his eyes until everything before him was a blur. When his eyes could hold no more moisture,
tears splattered onto the shattered pieces of the mug like gentle raindrops.
Rick's
knuckles turned white as he gripped the side of the garbage can to steady his
swaying body. His head fell to his chin, and his chest heaved in and out like a
bellows. His racking sobs were so
strong and deep they caused his rib cage to ache in protest. This was the first time Rick had completely
given into his despair since A.J. disappeared all those long months ago. He dropped to the floor and allowed his
forehead to rest on the hand still gripping the garbage can. Between his tears he beseeched, "Oh,
God, why? Why? Just tell me why, damn it!" until he
didn't have any tears left.
Rick
was certain that was the day he would have walked out of Simon and Simon and
never walked back in, if it hadn't been for one thing. His mother.
His mother, and the promise he'd made to A.J. a short time after they'd
opened the business. That promise
being, if the dangers sometimes inherent to P.I. work ever caused anything to
happen to A.J., Rick wouldn't take off for parts unknown in an effort to run
from his grief. That Rick would stay in
San Diego, where he would receive the support he needed from their mother and
extended family members and friends.
Likewise, Rick would be available to give Cecilia the support she
needed.
It
was because of that promise Rick Simon appeared at the office every morning
promptly at nine, and didn't leave until five, if not later. He continuously had all the cases he could
handle, and on occasion had to turn some down when he was either overbooked, or
the job someone wanted him to do required two men. Rick supposed he could have gotten Carlos to help him out at
those times, but A.J. was the only partner he'd ever had, and the only one he
ever wanted. If A.J. was no longer
there to work beside him, then Rick Simon was now a solo act.
For
the first three months A.J.'s house sat empty the business earned enough money
to pay his mortgage. But it quickly
became apparent to Cecilia how taxing it was on Rick to try to earn the income
of two men in order to pay all his own bills, the bills the business generated,
as well as A.J.'s bills. She mentioned
taking out a mortgage on her home and using the money to pay off A.J.'s
mortgage, but Rick wouldn't hear of it.
Although they never said anything to one another, both Cecilia and Rick
were aware the day would come that they'd have to have A.J. declared legally
deceased so they could sell his home and process his will. For the time being, that subject was too
painful to discuss. Cecilia finally
came up with a temporary solution to their problem.
Margaret
Wells' son, Randy, was moving back to San Diego from Colorado. He had recently divorced and was in the
process of relocating near his elderly mother, who was beginning to be in need
of assistance. Cecilia and Rick
discussed the matter at length before Cecilia placed a long distance call to
Randy, inquiring as to whether or not he was interested in renting A.J.'s
house, fully furnished, on a month to month basis. Randy hesitated a few moments before saying yes. By virtue of their parents' friendship, Randy,
A.J., and Rick had been boyhood pals.
Because he was an only child, Randy had come to look upon A.J. and Rick
as the brothers he never had. He and
A.J. had formed an even stronger bond while attending college together. Therefore, Randy was grieving as well over
A.J.'s unexplained disappearance, and he wasn't sure how he felt about moving
into his old friend's home.
In
the end, Randy's reluctant agreement to rent A.J.'s home proved to be a good
solution for both him and the Simons.
Randy was at a crossroads as he adjusted to being single again after
twenty years of marriage. Renting
A.J.'s house afforded him the time he needed to settle in and reacquaint
himself with the hometown he'd left twenty-five years earlier, before making
any permanent decisions. Likewise,
Cecilia and Rick were comfortable leasing the home to Randy. They knew they could trust Randy, and his
fifteen-year-old son who would be spending part of the summer with him, to take
excellent care of A.J.’s house. By the
time fall came Randy spoke privately with the Simon brothers' attorney, and
told him whenever Rick and Cecilia were ready to sell the home he'd buy
it.
The
weekend before Randy was slated to move in Cecilia and Rick emptied A.J.'s
bedroom closet and bureau drawers. They
moved everything into the closet and chest of drawers in the small third
bedroom A.J. had used as a home office.
Randy had assured Cecilia that arrangement was fine with him, and that
neither he nor his son had reason to be in that room. Rick removed all the personal mementos of A.J.'s from the house
as well. Some he took, some his mother
took, while others were boxed and stored in a corner of the garage for the time
being.
Rick
kept a watchful eye on his mother that day as they moved, boxed, packed, and
stored A.J.'s things. Cecilia put up a
good front of being all business until she was emptying out A.J.'s closet and
pulled a double-breasted suit off the clothes rod that had been a favorite of
hers. She'd always said A.J. looked
just like his father when he wore it.
As she held it in her hands and got a whiff of her youngest son's
cologne where it still lingered on the lapels, her face crumpled and she began
to sob in ragged, gulping breaths. Rick
took her in his arms and led her over to sit on the edge of the bed. He had no words of comfort to offer, and he
felt so damn inadequate. As if somehow
he'd let her down. When Cecilia's tears
subsided she kissed Rick and told him how much she loved him. Then they returned to their work as though
nothing had happened, because they both knew they had no choice but to go
forward as best they could and be strong for each other.
The
holiday season was hell on Rick and Cecilia.
Well meaning friends tried to ease their pain from Thanksgiving right on
through Christmas. While each and every
effort was sincerely appreciated, no one could give the Simons the one and only
gift they wanted. A.J. If not A.J. alive, and whole, and well, then
at least the gift of knowing what had happened to him.
That
was the gift Rick most wanted to give his mother that Christmas. The gift of answers. But it was also a gift that didn't
materialize underneath the tree.
Since
March, Rick had spent the year probing, and questioning, and following up on
leads regarding his brother's disappearance.
Trouble was, time and time again his probing and questioning proved to
be nothing more than an effort in futility.
What few leads came Rick's way never seemed to do more than run him
around in circles until he wound up back where he'd started. He kept a spiral notebook in which he'd
recorded what he knew about the events that occurred the night A.J.
vanished. Every question he had about that
fateful night was written down. If he'd
gotten answers to any of those questions those answers were recorded. He'd written down every person he'd talked
to about the case, from Abigail Marsh to Hiram Ogden, and what they'd told
him. He had copies of the police
reports regarding the break-in at his mother's home, and the subsequent filing
they'd made listing A.J. as a missing person.
As
much as Rick loathed the media, he had appeared on the Channel 3 evening news a
week after his brother vanished and asked any citizen to come forth who might
have seen anything suspicious the night A.J. disappeared. He also took his story to the two local
newspapers and endured endless interrogation that tried his patience. But Rick figured the reporters' ignorant
questions were worth putting up with if they brought him the answers he was so
desperately seeking.
For
a brief period of time, Rick and Cecilia were offering a twenty thousand dollar
reward to anyone who gave them information that led them to A.J. Within a month's time they pulled that
offer, however. They received so many
crank calls in relationship to it that it soon proved to be more heartbreaking
than Cecilia could stand. Abby assured
both the Simons that reward money offered in the disappearance of either a
child or an adult almost never resulted in any discoveries, positive or
negative. It generally just resulted
in a lot of false leads, as Rick and Cecilia had already so painfully
discovered.
By
far the most gut-wrenching thing Rick had to do after A.J. vanished was provide
his dental records to Jerry Reiner.
Rick knew without asking that meant a decomposed body roughly matching
A.J.'s general description had shown up somewhere in San Diego. Rick didn't ask any questions the day he
dropped those records off at Jerry's office, and the coroner offered no
explanations. He accepted the legal
sized manila envelope Rick handed him while squeezing his friend's
shoulder. In a harsh, choked voice Rick
asked, "You'll call me if..."
When
Rick couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence, Jerry nodded. "I'll call you." Though in truth, Jerry Reiner would have
visited Rick personally if the unidentified corpse that had been brought in the
evening before did indeed, turn out to be A.J. But it didn't.
In
the coming months Jerry referred to A.J.'s dental records on several other
occasions. He never notified Rick when
such an action was necessary. He felt
it would serve no purpose to put the Simon family through heartache each and
every time an unidentifiable Caucasian male crossed his path. If the day came that those dental records
did tell Jerry Reiner that the remains lying on his autopsy table were those of
his friend A.J. Simon, then he would visit Rick just as he had planned to do
the day the detective turned those records over to him.
But
despite all Rick’s many efforts, in ten month's time his diligence and skills
had taken him down nothing more than one dead end street after another. It didn't help matters that A.J.'s car had
never been found. Nor had there been
any trace of the Smith & Wesson revolver he was carrying that night.
Now
Rick sat staring at his desk calendar.
He knew all too soon it would be March and the one year anniversary of
A.J.'s disappearance would be upon them.
He wondered how he and his mother would mark that day. There was no grave to visit to pay their
respects to, and Rick had given up hope A.J. would be with them in the flesh to
hug in relief that the nightmare was finally over. Numerous friends and relatives had told Rick and Cecilia they
intended to hold a candlelight memorial service on that painful anniversary
date in honor of A.J. at the ocean side he had loved so much, but Rick wasn't
sure whether or not he or his mother could bring themselves to attend the
event.
More
than likely we'll each grieve silently and in our own way, Rick
thought. And Mom will probably come
to the same conclusion that I have.
That after the one year mark has come and gone we have no other choice
but to have A.J. declared dead, so we can probate his will. Somehow she and I have got to figure out a
way to go on. Neither one of us can
take another year like this last one.
She's lost so much weight. Hell,
so have I. We can't take the stress
anymore, or the sleepless nights.
Somehow we're gonna have to come to terms with all this. Somehow we're gonna have to lay A.J. to
rest.
It
all sounded logical to Rick. Deep down
he knew they had no other option but to start the long process it would take to
have A.J. declared legally deceased. But
it wouldn't be an easy step, and Rick knew he'd hate himself for initiating it.
"I'm
sorry, A.J." Rick's voice was
thick with tears as he apologized out loud to the empty office. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you. I hope you knew how much I love you. You were my best friend, and I'm just so
damn lost without you, little brother."
Rick
scrubbed a hand over his wet eyes and whispered, “I’m just so damn lost without
you.”
Chapter
7
Thursday,
January 14th, 1993
At
ten minutes after one on a Thursday morning in mid-January, Rick was woken from
a restless sleep by a sharp, 'rap, rap, rap,' on the houseboat's patio
doors.
Caught
between the world of sleep and wakefulness, Rick's mind screamed, "A.J.!,”
as it had done every time in the past ten months when the phone rang at an odd
hour, or when Rick had an unexpected late night visitor. But in the few seconds it took Rick to
become fully alert he chastised himself for his foolishness, while silently
rolling over and retrieving his gun from the nightstand.
Rex
sat up from where he'd been laying on the floor beside Rick's bed. His ears rose and his body tensed. He growled when the knocking repeated.
"It's
okay, boy," Rick's quiet voice soothed in the darkness. Rex stood and followed his master out of the
bedroom.
Rick
had left the light on over the sink when he went to bed, as was his habit. Its
soft glow illuminated the galley. Rick
didn't turn on any additional lights as he soundlessly made his way through the
living room. He took up a stance by the
patio doors. His Magnum was firmly
gripped in his right hand, his finger poised on the trigger.
Rex's
guttural snarl sounded again as Rick called through the glass, "Whatta
want?"
The
voice was so quiet Rick had to strain to hear the man's muffled words. "It's me, Rick. Jose˘
Baronez."
Rick
drew back the blinds and unlocked the door.
"Jose˘?"
Jose˘
was a colorful character who owned a bar/restaurant in a Hispanic part of the
city. Rick had met him thirty years
earlier in Mexico, when they were both much younger men. Rick had saved Jose’s life, and for that
Jose˘
owed Rick, but had yet to have the opportunity to pay him back. Not that Rick Simon kept track of such
things, but the issue seemed to be an important one to Jose˘. Jose˘ also had
his fingers on the pulse of San Diego's Hispanic community. As Rick was fond of telling him, "If it
moves and speaks Spanish, you know about it."
The
balding Mexican stepped inside.
"Be quiet," he cautioned.
"Close the door and lock it again.
Leave the blinds as they were.
And don't turn on any additional lights."
"What?"
"You
heard me. Just do it." Jose˘ peered
out the doors into the blackness of the night before allowing the blinds to
fall back into place. "I don't
think I was followed, but I don't want to take any chances. No one can know I've talked to you."
"Talked
to me about what?" Rick's
thinning hair was sticking out from his head in sleep-mussed spikes. He ran a hand through it to smooth it in
place. "Can't it wait? I don't usually entertain visitors in my
skivvies at quarter after one in the morning.
At least not male visitors. I'll
be in the office around nine. Come by
then and we'll--"
Jose's
dark eyes bore into the detective's in silent urgency. "It's about A.J., Rick."
"A.J.?"
"Si˘. About your brother. But first, lock the door."
Rick
did as he was told, then indicated for Jose˘ to have
a seat at the kitchen table. He
disappeared into the bedroom only long enough to return his Magnum to the
nightstand, and to pull on the jeans and shirt he'd discarded on the end of the
bed several hours earlier. Rick was
barefoot yet, and his shirt was unbuttoned as he joined Jose˘
in the dimly lit kitchen. Rex had
already made friends with their guest, and was now slumbering at his feet.
Rick
didn't allow himself to get too anxious over the purpose of Jose’s visit. Plenty of people had come to see him since
March about A.J., and nothing they had told him proved useful. He doubted what Jose˘
had to say would be any different.
Never mind that the man felt the need to show up on Rick's doorstep in
the middle of the night. Jose˘
always did have a flair for the dramatic.
The
sharp, pungent smell of beer, and the stale odor of cigarettes and cooking
grease, wafted across the table at Rick.
"What is it you wanna tell me about my brother, amigo?"
Jose˘
leaned forward, bridging the space between himself and Rick. He crossed his legs at the ankles and shoved
them far back under his chair. He laid
his arms on the table, rested his weight on them, and folded his hands.
"A
couple of hours ago, when my bar was empty of most of its patrons, I took a
break from my work in the kitchen.
There was a group of men sitting at a table shooting the bull, so I
pulled up a chair and joined them. Some
I know fairly well, some I know by sight only, and some I know not at all. A compadre˘ I've
never seen before was very drunk. Very
drunk and talking, Rick."
Rick
nodded his understanding. "Go
on."
"He
was bragging about a job he'd done last year for a man called, El Lobo
Negro."
It
was a phrase Rick had never expected to hear again. It brought back a flood of nightmarish
memories surrounding the case he and A.J. had taken over four years earlier for
Elena Montero.
Softly,
Rick uttered, "The black wolf."
"Yes."
"But
El Lobo Negro is dead, Jose˘.
I know. I killed the guy
myself."
"That's
right, Rick. You did. And A.J. killed
his son, Roberto. But apparently there's another wolf in the Agilar den. A wolf bent on revenge. A wolf by the name of Eduardo."
"Eduardo?"
Jose
nodded. "Eduardo Agilar. The youngest son of Androu Agilar, and the
younger brother of Roberto. According
to what I was told tonight, Eduardo Agilar is behind A.J.'s
disappearance."
"How?"
"The
compadre˘ said he and two other men were hired by
an Agilair...associate, shall we say, named Carson Baily. Wearing the uniform of a telephone
repairman, Baily broke into your mother's home and ransacked it. Then he placed a call to A.J. and told him
he was holding your mother hostage. He
told A.J. he wasn't to call the police or you, or your mother would be
killed. He gave A.J. the address of an
abandoned building somewhere here in San Diego and told him to come alone. Baily told A.J. when he arrived he - Baily -
would explain exactly what it was he wanted from him."
As
Rick listened to Jose's words he knew he was at long last finding the missing
pieces to the puzzle surrounding A.J.'s disappearance.
That's
why A.J. left his place in such a hurry that night. Mr. Ogden did see his car at Mom's. He musta went there first in order to check out the guy's story. And a threat to Mom would be the only thing
that would cause A.J. to go charging off like that without contacting me first.
"What happened next?"
"Once
A.J. was in the building, Baily and his three hired guns jumped him before he
had a chance to realize what was happening.
They knocked him unconscious, threw him in the back of a car, and took
him across the border."
"To
Mexico?"
"Si˘."
"Why?"
"The
Agilar family has an estate in the Mexican desert. I'd heard at one time some years back that it's approximately a
hundred miles south of Durango.
Supposedly it's a favorite spot of Eduardo's. That's where A.J. was held after he was kidnapped."
Rick's
questions couldn't tumble out of his mouth fast enough. "What happened to him? Is he still alive?"
Jose˘
held up a hand to calm his anxious friend.
"I'm getting to that part.
What happened to your brother, Rick, is that he was beaten on an almost
daily basis. He was deprived of food,
and water, and sleep. Eventually, he
was drugged."
"As
in addicted to drugs?"
Jose˘
shook his head. "I don't know for
certain, but I don't think so. From the
sounds of it, he was repeatedly given some type of hallucinogenic that distorts
the victim's perception of reality.
Makes the person open to suggestion."
Rick
could easily guess what was coming. He
knew the Vietcong had done similar things to some of the American P.O.W.'s in
Vietnam. His words were clipped and
grim. "In other words, he was
brainwashed."
"That's
my guess. From what the compadre˘
said, by the end of the summer A.J. no longer knew who he was. He could no longer speak. Whether that was a
result of the drugs, the brainwashing, or his physical injuries, I don't know. The compadre˘ didn't say."
Rick
turned away from Jose˘.
He pushed a breath out between clenched teeth. "That bastard."
Rick's fist slammed down on the table with so much force it rattled the
kitchen wall clock. "That goddamn
sonuva bitch! When I get a hold of the
bastard there won't be enough left of him to sift into an urn."
Rick
took a calming breath and faced his friend.
"Exactly how can I find Agilar's estate?"
"It
doesn't matter, amigo. A.J. is no
longer there."
"What? Where is he then?"
Jose˘
shook his head with regret. "I
don't know."
"Whatta
ya' mean you don't know? You just got
through telling me this drunk told you about what happened to A.J. You just said--"
"The
man doesn't know where A.J. is, Rick."
Jose's dark eyes clearly reflected Rick's Simon's frustration and
pain. "He said at the end of the
summer Agilar instructed Carson Baily to drive A.J. somewhere far away from San
Diego and dump him there."
"Dump
him?"
"Yes."
"You
mean to tell me my brother was beaten, brainwashed, and drugged before being
left to wander the streets of some strange city?"
"That's
what I mean."
Rick
momentarily closed his eyes and sagged back against his chair. "Oh, man. I can't believe this. I
just can't believe it. Never in my
wildest dreams did I imagine we'd be facin' something like this. It sounds like the plot of a bad
movie."
"Believe
it, Rick. Think about what you know of
the Agilars, and then believe it. I
would stake money on the fact that my compadre˘ with the
liquored tongue spoke the truth."
Rick
nodded. He didn't doubt the validity
of Jose's story. His past encounters
with the Agilar family had shown him how ruthless and violent they were. How little regard they had for anyone other
than themselves. How full they were of
their own imagined power and their own self-importance.
"This
guy...this Carson Baily. What do you
know about him?"
"Just
what I've heard on the streets. That he
worked for Androu Agilar for many years.
Apparently he continues to work for Eduardo."
"Where
can I find him?"
Jose˘
smiled. "Now that's the easiest
question you've asked me all night, amigo.
You can find Mr. Baily in La Jolla."
Rick's
eyebrows rose. "La Jolla? How convenient. I think I'm suddenly feelin' the need to take a drive in that
direction."
Jose˘
rose from the table. Rick followed suit
and extended his hand.
"I can't
thank you enough, Jose˘, for comin' here and tellin' me all
this. I really appreciate it,
man."
"There's
no need to thank me, Rick. I think I've
finally found a way to repay you for saving my life all those years ago."
Rick
chuckled. "Yeah, Jose˘. I think you finally have."
"I
don't believe the man with the loose tongue can ever tie me to you, Rick, nor
can anyone else that was sitting at the table tonight that I'm aware of. But to be on the safe side, I'm going to lay
low for a while. Maybe take a little
vacation with one of my senorita’s. I
hear the fishing in the Caribbean is excellent this time of year."
Rick
nodded. "That's probably a wise
idea."
Rick
walked Jose˘ to the door. The Hispanic man halted at the threshold. "There's one more thing you should be
aware of. One thing that may give you a
better picture as to what condition A.J. will likely be in should you find
him."
"I'll
find him, Jose˘.
You can bet money on that."
"I
don't believe I'll do that. I have a
feeling I'll lose. Regardless, my
compadre˘ said he overheard a conversation between
Agilar and Carson Baily. I'll quote
you his words.
"El Lobo Negro says even if Ricardo
Simon does find his brother someday, the blond one will be so loco that Ricardo
Simon won't want him back."
Rick
didn't hesitate for even a fraction of a second when forming his reply.
"El Lobo Negro has greatly underestimated Ricardo Simon, and just what
lengths Ricardo Simon will go to for his brother."
Jose˘
smiled. "That's what I thought
you'd say. If I could have told the man
that I would have."
Rick's
vow was cold and menacing. "I'm gonna do one better than that, Jose˘. I'm gonna tell Eduardo Agilar that in
person."
Chapter
8
Monday,
January 18th, 1993
Four
evenings after Jose's late night visit, Rick felt the need to do a little late
night visiting of his own. It had taken
nearly all his detective skills to discover exactly where it was Carson Baily
lived in La Jolla. A man like Baily,
who certainly had his share of enemies, didn't exactly list his address in the
phone book.
Rick
was discreet in obtaining the information he needed. The last thing he wanted was someone tipping off Baily that a man
named Rick Simon had been asking questions about him. Fortunately for Rick one of Carlos's many cousins owned a lawn
maintenance service. Although the
cousin wasn't the man contracted to trim Baily's hedges and mow his grass, he
knew someone, who knew someone, who knew someone, who was. Through this twisted vine of communication
was how Rick finally obtained what he needed to know.
Rick
drove by Baily's house twice on Saturday in a red Jaguar borrowed from one of
Carlos's shops. He wanted to get a good
look at the neighborhood and home he'd be seeing again after dark. The Jag made Rick a lot less conspicuous in
this upscale suburb. The people that
inhabited it weren't exactly a pickup truck crowd.
It
was one-thirty on Monday morning when Rick parked his truck a mile from Carson
Baily's home in a remote dark corner of an all-night grocery store's lot.
No
one was around to pay any attention as Rick quietly shut the truck door and
pocketed his keys. He briefly looked up
at the sky. The detective was happy to see the heavy cloud cover was still
hanging low over southern California, as the weatherman promised it would for
the next two days. The thick clouds
veiled the moon that was three quarters full.
They allowed only the barest amount of its light to sneak through every
now and then, before covering it up once more like a child playing peek-a-boo
with a blanket.
Rick
walked in the direction of Baily's house, being careful to stay within the
shadows of the privacy hedges that lined the sidewalks of almost every home he
passed. He saw only one car, but its
driver didn't see him. Rick's dark
clothing and camouflage cap caused him to blend into the night. Before the car's headlights could shine on
him, Rick was safely sheltered behind the enormous trunks of two aging oak
trees that long ago had intertwined and grown together.
Like
many of the homes in the prestigious neighborhood, Baily's was secluded behind
hedges in the front, as well as on both sides.
Those six foot high hedges would seclude Rick's movements from Baily's
neighbors, and for that the detective was grateful.
Rick
closed his eyes and held onto his cap as he slipped sideways through a set of
those scratchy hedges and into the edge of the front yard. The home was a massive three story brick
structure on an acre of ground with a circle drive and a four car garage. When Rick had driven by it in the daylight
he hadn't seen any signs that advertised it being wired with a home security
system. He knew he could get around
one, but depending on its design it could take him some time. Regardless, he would be forced to exercise
caution before entering the house. He
certainly didn't want to get caught by surprise and assume the home didn't
possess a security system, only to find out too late that it did.
Rick
looked up at the dark house towering before him. He guessed the property was worth eight hundred thousand dollars
if it was worth a penny.
Evidently
bein' the Agilars' hired man pays well.
Rick
pulled a flashlight and a pair of black gloves out of one of the deep pockets
of his camouflage field jacket. From
under the jacket he took his loaded Magnum out of its holster. He crouched low and silently raced across
the wide manicured lawn to the south side of the house. His shoes crunched softly on the ornamental
bark that blanketed a row of shin-high shrubs. The scent of fresh pine floated upward as the legs of Rick's
jeans disturbed the shrubs' placid branches.
He ducked down to circumvent each window he came to.
Somewhere
in the dark neighborhood a dog began to bark a warning. Rick paused, trying to gauge where the sound
was coming from. By the time the
detective determined the dog was several blocks behind him, the animal's
barking had ceased.
Rick
scanned the immediate vicinity. Baily's
home and the homes of his adjoining neighbors remained serene and blanketed in
darkness. Rick continued his forward
motion through the shrubs. Five
cautious footsteps later an overhead light popped on. The detective dived for cover as the yard was flooded bright
white.
Rick
lay on his belly in the bushes with the sharp edge of a piece of redwood bark
poking him in the stomach. He cocked
his semi-automatic in preparation as his eyes roamed his surroundings. He listened hard, but didn't hear any doors
open. He carefully rolled on his side
and looked up. No lights had come on in
any of the rooms of the house either.
As
the seconds passed and the house and neighborhood remained quiet, Rick came to
the conclusion he'd triggered a motion sensor light. Just like he'd been taught in boot camp so many years earlier,
Rick slithered along through the bark on his stomach until he felt he was out
of the light's range. Five minutes
later it flicked off.
Rick
slowly rose to his feet. He brushed a
few clinging pieces of bark off his shirtfront and jacket. He was now at a corner of the house that
overlooked the backyard, and he was hidden behind an evergreen shrub as tall as
himself. He stayed where he was another
ten minutes. During that time the house
remained dark and silent, leading Rick to believe Carson Baily had slept
through the light coming on. Or perhaps
he was accustomed to that occurrence considering wandering dogs, cats, or other
small animals could have triggered the same result Rick had.
When
Rick felt it was safe, he slid smoothly along the brick wall and rounded the
corner of the house. An in-ground
swimming pool dominated the backyard.
A glass table complete with four chairs sat at one end of it. The other end held a smattering of deck
chairs and chaise lounges. A diving
board protruded like a tongue over the far end. Closer to Rick was a blue curved slide that would dump its
occupants into four feet of water. An
eight foot high wooden fence separated Baily's property from his backyard
neighbor's. The fence and the hedges
created a fortress-like atmosphere around the house. Rick smiled slightly. He
began to think that just maybe this was his lucky night.
Rick
made his way toward the wooden deck attached to the back of the house. French doors opened onto the deck. The arrangement reminded Rick of A.J.'s home
on the Grand Canal. For a moment he was
forced to pause as he thought of his brother.
Just as quickly, Rick shook his head as if to clear it. He couldn't afford to think of anything
other than the job at hand. Even the
smallest misstep could obliterate his chances of finding A.J. And those chances were already slim enough
as it was.
The
lanky man took the steps without a sound.
He was glad he'd exchanged his cowboy boots for tennis shoes before
embarking on this evening's journey.
Rick
paused when he came to the doors.
Again, he saw no seal that claimed this residence harbored a security
system. He craned his head upward, then
to the left and right. The house
remained dark. He spent a long moment
clothed in indecisiveness before turning his flashlight on. Rick saw himself reflected off the light's
beam when it hit the glass of the doors.
He made quick work of traveling the beam around the perimeter of the
doors where their wooden frames met the glass.
He didn't see any minute wires or sensors that led him to believe the
house possessed an alarm.
Rick
reached out to try the doorknob on the off chance someone had forgotten to lock
up before going to bed. Nothing more
than his index finger came in contact with the door when it slowly swung open. Rick realized that, aside from the door
being unlocked, it also wasn't latched.
That seemed rather odd to the detective. It was with extreme caution that he proceeded into the house.
Rick
looked again to his left and to his right, as he crossed the threshold. He immediately knew he'd entered a family
room. A fifty-three inch television
screen dominated one wall, and a massive stone fireplace another. As well, the room possessed a stereo system
even the Rolling Stones would envy.
Rick was thankful it was dry outside as he made his way across the plush
carpeting. The last thing he wanted to
do was leave behind a muddy footprint.
The
detective kept his flashlight beam on low and pointed at the floor as he
crossed from the family room into the wide-open kitchen. The room was large and immaculate, the
refrigerator beckoned with a soft warm hum.
Rick stepped around the raised stools that sat at the breakfast bar and
walked past the center work island.
Shiny copper pots and pans hung from overhead. The rubber soles of Rick's shoes made no noise against the white
ceramic tiles of the floor.
Rick
moved quietly yet quickly through the remainder of the downstairs. He checked the bathroom and laundry room
that were in a hallway to the side of the kitchen. Both rooms were dark and unoccupied. He turned the knob of a closed door in the same hallway, but it
was locked. He didn't bother to try to
get on the other side of it. He had
already guessed it led out to the attached garage.
Rick
made his way back to the kitchen and proceeded to the formal dining room. It sat in front of the kitchen, and faced
the street. A crystal chandelier that
Rick estimated was worth at least five thousand dollars was suspended above the
gleaming cherry table that sat ten.
The
detective took three more steps into the room.
He didn't sense anyone else's presence, nor did he hear anyone
breathing, or hear the faint shuffle of shoes against the carpeting, but out of
the corner of his eye Rick caught a
glimpse of an armed man to his left.
In
a split second's time Rick's heart rate accelerated to the speed of a
Thoroughbred's thundering toward the finish line. Adrenalin flooded his veins, and in one fluid motion he pivoted
with the dexterity of an NBA pro and brought his gun up to a firing position.
The
only sound in the dark room was the deep, calming breaths Rick forced himself
to take. He slowly allowed his gun to
drop back to his side. For the man he
had seen was no one other than himself.
His reflection had been bounced off his flashlight beam and magnified
against the glass front of the china cabinet.
Calm
down, Simon, Rick mentally chastised himself. You damn near blew that cabinet to smithereens along with all the
dishes in it. That woulda' been a
helluva an effective way to wake Baily, not to mention the entire
neighborhood.
Rick
didn't rush himself. He knew impatience
could prove fatal, and he felt he'd already made enough mistakes for one
night. He stood in the middle of the room
until his breathing and pulse returned to their normal rates. When he slowly continued forward he arrived
at the foyer. A wide oak staircase
wound and curved to the upper levels.
The ceiling of the foyer itself rose the entire three stories without
interruption. Far above Rick's head he
could detect another light fixture. He
couldn't clearly see it, but assumed it was as expensive and as fancy as the
one hanging in the dining room. Across
the wide corridor was the formal living room.
It dominated the remainder of the front of the house. It was dimly illuminated by an arc of light
from the street that was just barely able to reach over the hedges and swim the
width of the lawn. Except for its
lavish furniture and a baby grand piano, the living room was empty, and like
the rest of the home, in impeccable order.
Rick
paused and listened before proceeding up the stairs. The upper level was silent.
He assumed its occupant was asleep.
The
detective was cautious as he climbed the stairs. He tested each carpeted plank like a person tests their first
step in a lake with unknown water temperature.
The last thing Rick needed after having gotten this far was to have a
creaky stair step give his presence away.
It
was as Rick climbed the stairs that he came across another mistake on his part.
Hanging on the walls on the second floor landing were pictures. Pictures of a family. Evidently Carson Baily had a wife and children. Rick had naively assumed a man in Baily's
line of work lived alone. The detective
had been so concerned with not asking too many questions about Baily for fear
his inquiries would get back to the man, that he'd let himself become
careless. Or at least that's how Rick
perceived it as he mentally cursed himself out.
Rick
didn't let the pictures deter him, however.
He took a moment to study them.
From what Rick could tell Baily had two daughters. By the age of the pictures that displayed
the girls in caps and gowns he guessed they were long grown. He hoped that also meant they were living
elsewhere. There were pictures of
younger children, as well, that appeared to be much more recent. Rick assumed these babies and toddlers were
Baily's grandchildren. He hoped
so. If the house was occupied by too
many people Rick would be forced to leave without getting what he came for.
The
detective moved down the wide hallway.
There were two bedrooms on the right side and one on the left. All three were empty with neatly made beds. They all had an air about them that labeled
them as guest rooms. Rick couldn't
detect any personal items in them that indicated someone resided there
full-time. That meant no daughter out
on a late night date should be walking in on him. So far Rick's luck was holding.
The bathroom that floor contained was dark and empty as well.
Eight
more steps led Rick to the third and last story. Either no one was home, and all Rick's cautions had been for
nothing, or it was this floor that held the master suite and its occupants.
Rick
stepped onto the landing. He didn't see
her until his flash light beam traveled the floor ahead of him.
The
huddled form of a woman was lying on the carpet in a semi-fetal position. Her back was to Rick, and her satin
nightgown was bunched around her knees.
One leg was lying in front of the other in a sprinter's stride, as if
she'd been running from someone when caught.
Rick
swallowed hard and knelt down beside her.
One finger remained poised on the trigger of his gun. He laid his flashlight at his feet and reached
down for her wrist. As he suspected,
there was no pulse. Her skin was warm
to his touch and her body supple. She
hadn't been dead long.
Rick
rolled the woman onto her back and cringed at the sight. Her neck flopped to the side as though it
belonged to a neglected, broken doll.
Rick could only guess that her neck had been twisted until it snapped by
someone who knew what he was doing. If
she'd tried to scream for help, as Rick suspected she had, her calls were
silenced before they permeated the quiet of the night. She was the same copper headed woman Rick
had seen in some of the pictures below.
He guessed her to be in her mid-fifties, and knew she must have been
Carson Baily's wife. Her blue eyes were
wide open and spoke of her last few seconds of terror. They seemed to be accusing Rick of
wrongdoing.
Did
I walk in right after a lover's quarrel of some sort? Were the doors open because Baily fled out the back?
Rick
surveyed the area from his crouched position beside Jeanette Baily's body. The house was still as dark and quiet as it
had been when he entered, but now that darkness seemed to hold an ominous
presence. Rick's grip tightened on his
gun. He picked up his flashlight and
stood. He stepped over Mrs. Baily's body and crept along the hall into the
master bedroom. A king size bed
dominated the center of the room. In
total contrast to the dead woman in the hallway who had met with such a violent
end, a man was lying peacefully asleep on his back, the covers pulled up to his
chest. Just from his length and girth
Rick knew the man was Carson Baily.
Carlos's cousin told him Baily stood six foot five and weighed somewhere
in the range of two hundred and eighty pounds.
Rick
silently crossed the floor to the sleeper's side. He tilted the Magnum's muzzle down and rested it against the
man's temple, while at the same time raising the flashlight and shining it in
Baily's face.
Rick's
arm collapsed to his side, the weight of his gun suddenly too heavy for his
wrist. He took a stumbling step away
from the bed.
The
detective wouldn't be getting any answers from Carson Baily tonight, or any
other night for that matter. Blood
still seeped from Baily's carotid artery and trickled downward to stain his
pillowcase crimson.
Carson
Baily's throat had been slit all the way to his spinal cord.
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