Lucky Catch (23 page)

“See and believe.” Dr. Phelps thumbed off the mike. Bending, he handed it to a young man who stepped to the platform—I thought I recognized him as one of the UC-Berkeley guys from last night.

A flexible banner unscrolled behind him. The crowd collectively gasped when the white sheet sprang to life, revealing that it was in fact a video screen. Dr. Phelps’ heart rate, temperature, and latitude and longitude coordinates appeared in large numbers.

Romeo fidgeted at my shoulder, glancing at his watch—thankfully, he resisted adding an exaggerated sigh. “What are we here for, exactly?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

A tall man standing in front of me turned and gave me a disdainful stare. “You are watching history being made. This will revolutionize the food industry and save this country from contaminated food products.”

I smiled in return. “Thereby saving Fast Food Nation and its contribution to the exalted tradition of Escoffier and its fellow
artistes gastronomiques
.”

To my delight, his face softened into a grin. “Our lasting legacy.”

The sound of the crane’s engine deepened and grew louder, forestalling more banter and grabbing our attention. I could see a figure in the glass cage at the base of the crane’s arm working the levers, but I couldn’t make out his features or any identifying trait—I assumed he was another of Dr. Phelps’s colleagues.

The arm, from which the chain and wrecking ball dangled, extended high above us, then eased the iron ball over to Dr. Phelps, who stepped on the ball and grabbed the chain. After testing his footing for a moment, he gave the thumbs-up sign to the operator. Lifted from the platform, he soared over the crowd. I shaded my eyes against the ever-lowering angle of the sun, trying to follow his path arcing above our heads.

The staccato rhythm of his heartbeat sounded through the speakers, which I found vaguely disconcerting—the audible manifestation of Dr. Phelps’s increasing fear, which did little to allay mine. In an instinctive, sympathetic response, my heart rate accelerated.

“Holy shit.” Romeo sounded awestruck.

Glancing at the large screen, I realized the readout of Dr. Phelps’s vital signs was updating, the page scrolling as new information accumulated.

“How’s he doing that?” Romeo asked as we both watched the crane swinging him in what looked to be a defined pattern.

“It seems new info is added at the apex of each arc. Other than that, you got me.”

The guy in front of us was no help, either.

After watching a few more passes, which I suspected was the entire show, I decided to heed the lure of all the whiffs of delicious foods wafting through the crowd while I waited for Dr. Phelps to finish. As I turned to go, I caught the ball as it reached yet another apex. The young scientist hung on with one hand, waving to the crowd with the other.

At the high point, the ball suddenly dropped, a jerky hitch to the fluidity.

Slack in the chain. The crowd gasped. I probably did as well, which was a challenge, considering I was holding my breath.

Startled, Dr. Phelps clutched the chain with both hands. His heart rate zoomed. A pulsing rhythm booming through the speakers, it pounded through my chest until my heart syncopated.

The ball hit the bottom of the new length chain with a jolt. Dr. Phelps had bent his knees to absorb the impact, but it wasn’t enough. One foot lost its grip. He swung wildly as he tried to regain his footing. After a few failed attempts, he worked his foot back under him, but he stayed crouched.

The crane moved, pulling the ball, increasing the arc. As the ball started down, slowly at first, then building speed . . . it headed straight for the cinder-block wall in the center of the pit. Mesmerized, I watched in growing horror.

Finally, with pulsing certainty of the scene unfolding, adrenaline freed me, propelling me forward. Pushing people aside, I moved, driven by the need to stop the disaster unfolding in slow motion in front of me. I sensed Romeo behind me, but I didn’t look.

As I ran, I shouted, “Jump!” to Dr. Phelps as he accelerated overhead in a downward arc. I knew he probably couldn’t hear me. And even if he could, he was most likely too scared to let go, but I still had to try. At the edge of the pit, I launched myself in the air. Hitting the sand, my feet sank a bit, stopping my momentum. Putting my hands out, I rolled, letting the momentum carry me until I hit my feet again and ran.

The ball was coming down hard and fast now. I could see the terror on the young doctor’s face as he curled up, putting his back to the wall, cringing for impact.

I had no idea what I was going to do. It didn’t matter.

I was too slow.

The ball, with its precious human cargo, hit the wall.

The wall crumbled. Dr. Phelps disappeared in a cloud of dust.

The world went quiet.

Without thinking, I hit the hole in the wall. Grabbing at pieces of blocks, digging, scraping, I followed the chain into the pile of rumble. Romeo pushed in next to me. Together, we fought like panicked rescuers in a collapsed mine.

“His heartbeat has stopped,” Romeo gasped through labored breathing.

“No. It can’t have. Just the sound has stopped.”

Romeo didn’t argue. I grabbed a huge chunk of stone, struggling with the weight. Romeo grabbed the other side. We turned to toss it behind us. Other hands grabbed it. Like a bucket brigade, others joined, helping to move the stones and clear a path for the paramedics, I hoped.

The next time I reached, my hand hit cloth, then flesh. “I got him.”

Romeo and I increased our pace—working as fast as we could, as quickly as we dared. First, we uncovered his legs; one was badly broken. Bone protruded from his thigh. Blood had pooled underneath his leg, staining the light sand a dark, ugly reddish brown. The wound only oozed now . . . not a good sign. Romeo shucked off his shirt, ripping off a strip. Feverishly, I tied it tight above the wound, then kept working. It seemed like an eternity, but we finally cleared his chest, then his head.

Two fingers against his neck, I felt for a pulse. Nothing. With a hand, I stilled Romeo and concentrated. Still nothing.

Someone pressed in behind us. A hand squeezed my shoulder and a gentle, calm voice said, “Lucky, we’ll take it from here.”

Turning, I met the blue eyes of Nick the paramedic. He’d ridden to my rescue several times before.

Pressing to the side, I eased out past him—a very tight squeeze. It was funny how desperate need facilitated the normally impossible. On the other side, Romeo also flattened himself, allowing Nick’s colleague to join him. The path now clear, we backed out on our hands and knees, first Romeo, then me.

The crowd huddled around, silent, round-eyed. Several of the men were dusty and bloodied. Glancing down, I realized I was the same. Several fingernails ripped and torn, the skin on my hands and arms scored with ugly bright red gashes as if I’d been mauled by an otherworldly beast—the clothes I stood in soiled and torn beyond repair. Thought stalled as I floundered in the aftermath of the adrenaline rush. Without a word, Romeo reached out, pulling me into a hug. Putting my head on his shoulder, I tried to breathe.

An eerie silence enveloped us.

Absorbing his strength, I finally pulled away. Holding vigil, we all waited.

Raking my hand through my hair, I scanned the crowd. Christian Wexler stood above me on the other side of the pit, staring at me. We locked eyes. He tilted his chin in challenge, then stepped back, and the crowd swallowed him.

Romeo filtered through the crowd, wandering, searching. Casually, I kept track of him as he talked with random folks, questioning the media people in the crowd. Occasionally, he pulled out his pad to jot a note. Other Metro officers arrived. Romeo directed them, and I watched as they fanned out through the crowd. I let Romeo do his thing—if I tried to help, I’d only be in the way—he’d told me that several times before.

Distracted, I let my eyes wander over the crowd—they couldn’t find anyone else familiar to settle on. I struggled through the loose sand, clambering up to the edge of the pit. Putting a hand down, I sat on the edge, my lower legs dangling. I concentrated on keeping myself still, quieting my mind, and slowing the hammering of my heart. The needling pain of each shallow cut and scrape was a sharp reminder of the fine line between life and death and comforting evidence of which side I fell on.

Romeo returned, looming over me as he stuffed his note pad back in his pocket. Dropping down beside me, his mouth was set in a hard line, his face closed and angry.

“From the looks of you, I’m guessing nobody saw who was in the cab of that crane.”

Romeo snorted. “With our luck? Nobody saw anything. None of the camera crews had any footage, either—everyone focused on the drama.”

“Figured.”

“It coulda been an accident.” Romeo sounded hopeful.

“Right.” I looked him in the eye.

His hope deflated. “But you don’t think so.”

I turned my attention back to the pit and the hole Dr. Phelps had disappeared into. “Kid, there’re a lot of things I don’t believe in, even though I’d like to: Santa Claus, Cupid, the Tooth Fairy. It’s a long list that includes coincidence and easy answers.”

He mulled that over for a moment. “You don’t believe Cupid is flapping around piercing us all with arrows tipped with the elixir of true love?”

“Hell, no—the little fairy is long gone. Some dissatisfied customer strangled the life out of him centuries ago.”

“That’s not like you at all.”

“Someday, I had to grow up.” I shot him a hopeful smile. “I’m done looking to anyone else, real or imaginary, for my happiness.”

He returned my smile. It was still his turn to dole out the hugs—I took it like a man.

A figure behind us cast a shadow, blocking the heat of the sun as it dropped lower toward the west. The sudden coolness tickled the nape of my neck. A shiver chased through me as I turned, shielding my eyes with one hand.

Brett Baker gave us a tight, worried smile. “May I join you?” He motioned to the spot next to me.

“Sure.”

He crouched, levering himself with one hand as he dropped his feet over the edge and settled in. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

I brought him up to speed.

“Wow. You think they can bring that dude back.?.”

“Right now would be a great time for a miracle.” I took a deep breath, marshaling my thoughts. Romeo glanced at me, but didn’t say anything. The floor was mine. “Brett, I know this is an awkward time, but would you mind if I asked you some questions?”

“Questions?” He glanced at me, his expression open. “I guess so.”

“How do you know Jean-Charles?”

“He recruited me to work for him in New York. I’d just finished training in Japan, and really had few contacts in the States.” As he talked, Brett stared into the pit, watching the paramedics work. “I interviewed with Chef Bouclet. He hired me. I rotated between his three restaurants refining the fish preparation, adding some sushi where appropriate. He has been a wonderful mentor.”

“And Adone Giovanni? Any bad blood between you two?”

His eyes flicked to me. “Not for me. I can’t speak for Adone. He is a great chef, very talented. But he’s an ass.”

Romeo nudged me—I got the hint. “How so?”

“Too much ego. Too much anger. This is a tough business—we all have put in many years of long, hard days. He thinks it is his time.”

“Is it?”

Brett gave me a knowing look. “That is for time to decide.”

“Ah yes, timing is everything.” I trotted out this little banality as I watched the paramedics working around the hole where Nick and Dr. Phelps were hidden from view. Talking helped. “Do you still do any work with Jean-Charles in New York?”

“No. I left about a year ago. Moved to L.A.” He rubbed his thighs with both hands—the evening had turned a bit cool for shorts. “Loved the restaurant I worked for there, but I fell in love with the whole idea of this food truck thing. You know it’s really big on the West Coast.”

“And here as well.” I tucked my hands under my thighs. Mr. Baker had made me aware of the chill. “Of course, trends travel the short distance between Southern California and here pretty quickly.”

“I bought a truck, and here I am.” Brett seemed amused by that fact.

“Who is your supplier here?”

His smile faded. “Not sure now. It was Fiona Richards.”

“How was her quality?”

If he thought the question odd, he didn’t let on. “The best. She could get anything, even the most rare stuff.”

“And Chitza? Where did you meet her?”

“I’d never heard of her until I came here. I met her at the meeting earlier, the one you held.” He must’ve sensed my next question, or he saw it in my eyes, I don’t know which. “She came by today. Wanted to see my truck. Just curious is all.”

Silence enveloped us once again, and time slowed to a crawl. To be with this many people with no sound other than the passing of the traffic sorta creeped me out a bit. And worry was making me twitchy. Metro had set up a perimeter, moving the crowd back farther so the paramedics could work. Nick was taking an awful lot of time—I didn’t know whether that was good or bad. I chose the former on the theory that manifesting, or “wishful thinking,” as I liked to call it, really worked.