Little Mountain (23 page)

         He smiled. Quality time was their private term for making love. Meanwhile, exercise could keep his demons at bay and burn away his old terrors. The steady rhythm of his footsteps took over and crowded out thoughts of Bin Chea and Viseth Kim, and tuned out the faint wail of sirens somewhere in the distance. He crossed one of the old canals that Lowell maintained for show, a relic of the old textile industries that had once been the city’s backbone.

         The gym was on the first floor of an old mill building in a hall that had once thundered with textile looms. Dozens of men and women showed up after work, dressed in sweats or Spandex. The colors were often brilliant, the bodies dazzling. Women ran on treadmills and stepped on stair-climbing machines to whatever beat came out of their headphones.

         As Sam cooled down from his run, a radio announcer’s voice proclaimed the only station that really rocked. The music must have been made for this place, because soon everyone’s arms and legs pumped to a Led Zeppelin beat. Cochran’s had a dozen Nautilus machines, everything from leg extenders to tricep builders.

         Sam nodded to Jason, a bodybuilder who wore cutoff shorts, a silver earring, and blond hair in a ponytail. Sam hooked a handle to a steel cable and lifted 150 pounds of steel plates until the strain hurt his arms. Jason lifted twice that amount, veins bulging with the effort,
then
preened in front of the wall mirror as though posing for a magazine cover. Sam would never be like some of the guys here, people who bought their quick weight gain supplements at the juice bar and had biceps bigger around than Sam’s neck. Hey, no sense giving Julie more than she could handle. Burning away the stress was enough.

         But he did fifty chin-ups on a metal bar and lifted a twenty-kilo weight a dozen times with each arm. If he’d driven there, he would have pedaled for thirty minutes on the recumbent bicycle, with a setting on “Alpine Marathon” that would leave his legs with a pleasant sting and his body wet with perspiration.

         The rain started as a light mist as he started back home. He was late and had to pick up his pace. There would be no time to stop at the Coppolinos’.

Viseth pulled in front of Sam Long’s apartment building in a stolen Trans Am.
The air was still and humid, and a soft rain fell straight down and landed without noise. A joint had calmed him a little before he’d lifted the wheels, and now he needed another one. On the front seat beside him sat a white gift box with a green bow on the lid, which was loose on top. Long and his woman were due for a big surprise: their own private thunderstorm. Long would open the door. Old lady would be sorry they ever left the camps in Thailand when she saw the side of his face blown off. She’d wish they’d stayed in Phnom Penh or wherever they came from, to take their chances with whatever shit was happening there. Of course, the woman might answer the door, and he would need a second shell to go after Long. He imagined Sambath Long on his knees, scared shitless, begging for mercy. It wouldn’t do any good, of course.

        
Viseth left the engine running as he stepped into the rain with the box under his arm.
One shell was already in the chamber, and he slipped his other two shells into his pocket. Box gets a little wet, so what? Give the gift and the wrapping gets thrown out anyway.

         The apartment had two stories with a brick front, and he walked briskly down a slate walk that led to a pair of white columns decorating the front entrance. By the front door were two rows of mailboxes. Above one was “Long, apt #5.” The door was unlocked, and he stepped inside.

         Apartment 5 was on the second floor, the first door on the left after Viseth went up a short flight of stairs. The hallway was quiet except for the muffled sounds of TV. He knocked and smiled at the peephole as soon as he heard footsteps approaching the door. The door opened until the chain stopped it. He took the top off the box. Through the four-inch opening he saw an American woman with blonde hair and freckles, and suddenly he knew that this was a mistake. The woman looked at him with a curious smile that searched for recognition of his face.

         There was a child’s voice in the background, and then the sound of its padding towards the door. “Who is it, Mommy?”

         The woman’s eyes then looked down at the open box as his hand touched the shotgun’s pistol grip. What the hell was going on here? Where was the Cambodian broad? Was this the wrong apartment? This was Huon’s fault. He told Viseth to do this, and it was all fucked up now. The woman’s mouth started to open. What now?

        
Ma’am, where do the Longs live?
I’m blowing their brains out tonight.

        
Oh, next door down.

        
Thank you, sorry to be of trouble.

         Her eyes opened wide, blue like the slates on the walkway, and her mouth now formed an “O.” The girl came into view as the woman’s hand reached to push the door shut. The girl was no older than his
niece,
her face was round, her eyes--her eyes! She looked Asian, maybe half Cambodian, she must be-- His hand wrapped around the pistol grip as the box dropped to the floor and the door slammed with a thud. The loud click had to be the deadbolt snapping into place. He lifted the barrel to the level of the doorknob and pulled the trigger.

         The door blew open and Viseth stepped inside. His ears rang, his right hand ached from the shotgun’s kick, and the smell of burnt powder attacked his nose. What a rush! Nothing splattered against the wall this time, but a trail of blood did lead towards the bedrooms. He hadn’t counted on a kid, or on having to blow his way in. How could he put them all away fast and get the hell out of there? “Oh, my God!” said a voice behind him. He turned, and a black man disappeared behind the door across the hall. Move fast. He slipped another round into the chamber and looked quickly into the bathroom, but no one was there. The first bedroom door was wide open, and a breeze lifted the blue window curtains.

         “God, what’s going on?” said a voice that came from down the corridor. Viseth glanced into the open room, then stared at the trail of blood that led to the closed room. From behind the door he heard scraping and a loud thump that sounded like furniture being jammed against the door. Maybe Long Dick was back there too, waiting to empty his .38 into Viseth’s guts. The barrel went right up against the door. His hands were slippery with sweat, and he pulled the trigger again. Behind the door the woman screamed, and Viseth knew it was time to get out. He packed the shotgun and the empty shells into the gift box, and ran out the back door. The shouts seemed to come from the front of the building as he leaped over a picket fence and into another back yard.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

First the siren wailed, insistent and shrill. Then traffic stopped at the green light two blocks ahead. Seconds later, an ambulance sped straight through the intersection, heading toward Lowell Hospital from the direction of his apartment.

         Julie and Trish were fine, of course. Trish was in for the evening by now.
Through with her bath, most likely sitting in bed with a picture book.
Waiting for Daddy to read her a story.

         He looked up the hill in the direction of his apartment building. A blue light from a cruiser flashed through the trees--he struggled to pick up his pace on the slippery sidewalk. Pain shot across his chest as he reached the traffic light and rounded the turn. His body was soaked with rain and sweat.
Too hard.
Pushed too hard tonight.
Maybe Mr. Coppolino up there.
Good man.
Bad heart.
No.
Could be anyone.

         Three cruisers were parked in front of his apartment, their blue lights flashing. An empty Trans Am sat in front of two of the cruisers. The stink of exhaust fumes hung in the air.

         Whose car was it? No one in Sam’s building owned a fire-engine red sports car. Sergeant DeVito stood next to the cruiser and spoke into his two-way radio through the open window. A cluster of neighbors milled about. Maybe Sam could pick out Julie and Trish in the crowd.

         As he approached, he recognized the Coppolinos. Mrs. Coppolino wore a kerchief and walked with a cane; she buried her face in her husband’s shoulder.

         What could be the problem? Some of the neighborhood children rode their bicycles in the street.
The same street where Marty the immortal teenager liked to race his old Chevy, the one with orange and red flames on the sides.
Baker Street was a proving ground for his manhood, but it hadn’t proven much. God, hadn’t the boy listened to Sam? Sooner or later, he was going to learn a painful lesson at someone else’s expense.

         Everybody who lived in the apartment seemed to be outside on a death watch.
Everybody but Julie and Trish.
Sam gulped in deep breaths of air. Where were they? What the hell was wrong?

         A voice on DeVito’s radio spoke about an Asian male.

         In the shadows, Mr. Coppolino’s eyes were hard to read. Earlier Sam and the old man had chatted happily about the plum tomato plants that grew so tall the missus could pluck tomatoes from their first-floor window. She had a bad hip. What was
she
doing outside?

         Mr. Coppolino stared at Sam and said nothing.

         Mrs. Coppolino looked up from her husband’s shoulder and crossed herself. “I’ll pray for her,” she said.

         Pray?
For whom?
And why?

         “...Asian male, age 20,” the voice on the radio said.
“Armed and extremely dangerous.”

        
Julie!
Trish!
What happened to my family?

         DeVito walked toward Sam and started to speak, but Sam ran past him toward the apartment. Whatever the problem was, he was too late. He took the stairs two at a time while Fitchie put his hand up like a traffic cop and tried to stop him.

         What was
Fitchie
doing here? He had been off duty for hours, just like Sam. A crowd of neighbors stood in the hallway on the other end of Sam’s apartment building, well out of the way of the police. The neighbors’ faces were etched with fear and shock.
If Julie and Trish weren’t all right--

         “What’s going on?” he heard himself ask, and then he looked into his apartment. The door had a jagged hole and hung by a single hinge. Shards of wood had scattered across the living room and ripped into the couch where Trish usually sat to watch
Sesame Street
with Courtney, her favorite doll. Courtney was torn in half on the end of the couch. A wide patch of blood had soaked through the beige carpet and trailed into their bedroom.

         Fitchie spoke, but Sam didn’t hear.
Where were they?
His world was coming apart like a plaster Buddha smashed with a two-by-four.

         Fitchie grabbed Sam’s arm and held it tight. His voice was calm and steady, but his eyes were full of pain. “They took Julie in an ambulance. Trish wasn’t hurt.”

         “Where is she?”

        
“With the Gowers.
Poor kid’s
so
scared.”

         Sam turned and saw Cletus Gower, his neighbor across the hall. Cletus stopped speaking to an officer and motioned to Sam. “Your daughter’s with us,” he said, his voice shaking. He had wire-rimmed glasses and coffee-colored skin, with hair that looked like half-burnt coal. “Please come inside.”

         Jolene Gower looked up from the couch where she held Trish, whose face was nestled against a floral print blouse and between a pair of massive breasts. Trish’s yellow pajamas were spotted with blood. “Look
who’s
here, honey,” Jolene said.

        
“Daddy!”
Trish reached out with her small arms. Sam took her and held her close, his eyes closed against his daughter’s wet cheek.

         Jolene touched his arm, and for an instant Sam’s mother had returned to comfort him. His fingers combed through Trish’s hair. She seemed to shake, and it took a moment for Sam to realize that he was the one who was shaking. Relief, pain and rage surged through him as he held Trish tightly to his chest. He rocked her back and forth in his arms and turned at the sound of Fitchie’s voice. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Sam kept saying, hoping to convince them both.