Land of Shadows (40 page)

“LT called,” Colin said. “Angie Darson ain't doing so good.”

I sighed, then closed my eyes. “Where is she?”

“In the psych ward at USC.”

“Poor lady.”

“And…”

“And what?”

He took another swig of beer. “They cracked opened Max Yates's skull. Surgeon found a tumor the size of a walnut.”

I pushed my damp hair away from my forehead. “The Charles Whitman defense then?”

The shooter on the tower at the University of Texas had killed thirteen people and wounded thirty-two others. A brain tumor had been pressing against the part of the brain that controlled rage, fear, and anxiety. That's why he killed—that's what some doctors and attorneys said.

“He gonna live?” I asked.

Colin lifted the bottle to his lips. “Probably not.”

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

“What do you think?” Colin asked.

I paused, before saying, “I'm a cop, not a neurologist.”

He grunted, not satisfied. “And Napoleon Crase?”

I took a deep breath, held it, then slowly released. “He could've ended all of this a long time ago. And that would've…”

Would've
what? Saved Monie? Saved Macie? Cyrus? Yes. But Victoria Starr, my sister, would have still been lost.

I sat up. “Max Crase was in control when he lured Monique Darson to that condo.” I ran my hands through my hair, then let my head fall back onto the couch. “I can't say that was true for Tori … or the others. But for Monique, for Monie, he deserves…” I shook my head. “Shit.”

“Yup.” Colin offered me the beer bottle.

I took it and guzzled the rest.

“Thought you hated beer,” he said.

“Well, you offered.”

He looked up at me, his eyes searching mine, looking for a sign that I was as okay as I sounded. “You okay?”

“Are
you
okay?” I asked him. “Since you were the one who got shot today.”

He smiled. “It's all good. Chicks dig scars.”

“Indeed.”

Then, we closed our eyes and fell asleep.

 

Monday, June 24

 

61

On Monday morning, I awakened with my head in Colin's lap. He was watching the highlights of a baseball game on mute. Once he realized that I was awake, he turned the channel to a home gardening show. “Cuz you ladies like those kind of shows, right?”

I checked voice mail: Greg had left more messages than I could count, each one seeped in a different mental state. Fear: of losing me. Anger: from being ignored. In love with me all over again. Jealousy. Sadness. And on and on. With the blood of others still trapped beneath my fingernails, I no longer knew if Greg Norton fit into my life. I was not the same Lou he had left almost twenty days ago. A better Lou? A worse Lou? I did not know. Guess we would both find out.

The doorbell rang and Colin groaned as he shuffled to the door.

Pepe stood there holding a brown paper bag from Noah's. “I brought breakfast.” And as he laid out bagels, lox, and cream cheese on the kitchen counter, he said, “Luke and I went to see Angie Darson this morning.”

“Medicated?” I asked as I fixed a pot of coffee.

“Heavily.”

I fixed a plate for Colin, then joined him and Pepe in the living room. We ate slowly, eyes on the television and on a couple house hunting in Costa Rica.

After the episode ended, Pepe said, “We should head back.”

Colin aimed the remote at the television and the screen went black.

I frowned. “Where the hell you going? You're on the injured list.”

He stood and readjusted his arm sling. “I won't be runnin' after no crackheads today, but I'm good. Let's roll, partner.”

Outside, at our cars, Pepe hugged me, then said, “Damn, Lou. I saw Max Yates's face last night as they were loading him into the rig.” He tousled my hair. “You fight like a girl.”

I smiled, then climbed behind the wheel of my Crown Vic.

We drove back over the hill and to Santa Barbara Plaza. The sun shone bright and made these urban ruins more beautiful than what they deserved. For an hour, we waited until our entire team had assembled: Joey, Pepe, Luke, Lieutenant Rodriguez, Zucca and his team, and forensic anthropologists from Cal State Los Angeles.

While I waited, I pictured myself emerging from the store's basement four hours later, dusty and exhausted. I imagined lifting my face to the sun as warm tears sluiced down my dirty cheeks. Imagined taking several deep breaths before pulling out my phone and calling my mother, saying to her that I had kept my promise, that I was bringing Tori home.

After so many years, I wanted to live that moment more than I wanted to see God.

Minutes before eleven o'clock, we all clambered into the store, then trudged down the steps and into the basement's storage area. We wore masks with aerators to filter out the smell and to protect us from kicked-up dirt and fecal matter.

Portable light stands set up and burning bright, Zucca handed me a whisk broom. “Shall we?” he asked.

I chose a patch of ground near that rectangular window. I dropped to my knees and started to sweep away dirt and garbage. The others found their own parcels and did the same. After much sweeping, I found a small, metal trapdoor.

Work stopped. The room fell into uncertain silence.

I tried to yank open the door.

No give.

Colin tried.

Still no give.

Zucca used a crowbar and the hinges loosened.

I grabbed the door and pulled the handle.

The videographer turned her camera toward the hole.

I pulled again and the door creaked opened.

The cops stepped back—I did, too—and kept flashlights trained on the darkness. The anthropologists took the best positions, kneeling around the door. One scientist, a woman named Olga, motioned for me to come back. “Look,” she said, pointing into the darkness.

I glimpsed a round brown object half-buried in a pile of dirt.

Olga used a hand spade to gently dig around that object. Then, she gradually pulled it free.

It was a shoe. A Nike Huarache.

 

About the Author

Rachel Howzell Hall is a writer/assistant development director at City of Hope, a national leader in cancer research and treatment. Her first novel,
A Quiet Storm
, was a featured selection of the Borders Original Voices program, as well as an alternate selection of the Black Expressions book club. She lives in Los Angeles.

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

LAND OF SHADOWS

Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Howzell Hall

All rights reserved.

Cover art by Getty Images

Cover design by Jamie S. Warren

A Forge Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

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New York, NY 10010

www.tor-forge.com

Forge
®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Hall, Rachel Howzell.

   Land of shadows / Rachel Howzell Hall.—First edition.

      p. cm.

   “A Tom Doherty Associates Book.”

   ISBN 978-0-7653-3635-4 (hardcover)

   ISBN 978-1-4668-2819-3 (e-book)

   1.  Teenage girls—Crimes against—Fiction.   2.  Police—California—Los Angeles—Fiction.   3.  Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction.   I.  Title.

PS3608.A548L36 2014

813'.6—dc23

2013029609

e-ISBN 9781466828193

First Edition: June 2014

.