Point Doom (18 page)

A few minutes later I helped Mom and Coco load their luggage and their remaining four cats into her white Escalade.

As I was closing the second garage door and was preparing to lock it, I heard a thud and looked down at the pavement near my feet. The stiff bodies of two cats were inches away from the end of my shoes. They had fallen as the garage door closed.

Both Mom’s pets had mangled torsos. Their legs and heads were facing the wrong direction.

Mom and Coco were in Mom’s car and busily arranging themselves. They hadn’t seen the bodies.

Wordlessly, I got into the driver’s seat, then slid the Escalade’s shifting knob into reverse, and we were on our way.

TWENTY-THREE

W
hen she woke up it was still dark outside. The girl rubbed her eyes and saw him standing by the side of her bed, tall and fully dressed in a dark jumpsuit and matching baseball cap. The coveralls looked like the work clothes some of his staff wore and, for a moment, she thought he might be one of the fellows that helped out during the day around the property. But then he clicked on her table light and she saw his face. “Up, child! Now!” her father said. “We have important things to do. Very important things.”

He handed her a dark, thick sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants of the same color. “Put these clothes on,” he ordered.

Later, she would remember how cold it was, especially as they walked from the main house to the stables, where her horse, Stampede, and the others, were kept. As they walked, she even thought for a second that he might be taking her riding, though he had never done so before at this time of the morning and, of course, she wasn’t wearing her riding boots, so she dropped the idea of riding.
Don’t be a baby
, she thought.
Show him how grown-up you are.
She reminded herself that he’d told her more than once what a smart girl he thought she was. She had a way of figuring things out on her own, he’d said. No, of course they weren’t going riding! They were doing something else. But maybe later, after this, she’d be able to go to the stables with Isabella, her nanny, and they’d let her brush Stampede again. That would be sooo cool.

He wasn’t talking, her tall father, they were just walking. As he marched ahead of her she noticed that he was carrying something in his hand. It looked like a pole or a short, thick pipe. No, dummy! It was a flashlight. But it probably had something to do with the horses after all, she thought, because they were heading in the direction of the stables. Father went there a lot by himself and often stayed there for a long time.

Her dad unlocked the long door to the stable with a metal key, then slid it open. It made almost no sound as it glided along its tracks.

After they’d stepped inside, he slid the door closed again. Then he clicked on a switch. But no light went on. That was weird. He knew she didn’t like the dark. Then he clicked on the flashlight.

He took her by the hand so she wouldn’t be afraid, and they walked the length of the stalls, past Stampede and Sheba and the new horse that her father had bought only last week. He’d named him Attila, and Attila was the biggest horse she had ever seen. A stallion.

The horses were all still asleep now and Father aimed the flashlight on the floor to help them both see as they walked.

At the very end of the long row of dark stalls they came to another door. It was really a gate and not a door.

On the wall by the gate was a silver phone pad, like for a telephone, but there was no telephone. Father punched in some numbers and the gate made a clanking sound, then popped open.

The light was already on and they went down some stairs.

It didn’t smell right on the stairs. It was stuffy, and later she would remember being afraid of the odor, but knowing that he was there with her, she thought it’d probably be okay.

At the bottom of the stairs he opened another door with the same kind of key pad that had no phone. A light came on inside the room.

This room was like nothing she had seen before. It had some kind of padding on the walls and ceiling. Gray padding. Like pillows but not really. They were puffy and stuck out from the walls.

Then she saw that there was a man there in the center of the room. He had no clothes on and he seemed to be asleep and there were straps on his wrists and feet and another one around his neck. He was lying on a long table, like a doctor’s-office table or an operating table on TV, only this table was made of wood and not metal.

There were no pictures or windows in the room and the smell was stronger now, stronger than it had been on the stairs. It was like old, dirty clothes mixed with something else and it was making her start to feel sick. It smelled like poop.

Her father closed the door and then pushed some more numbers on the keypad next to it on the wall. She heard the clunking noise again.

Then he walked to the table where the man lay asleep.

“Over here, child,” he ordered. “Stand on the other side of the table and face toward your father.”

When she got to the table she thought that she recognized the man who was on it. The table was high, at the level of her shoulders, so she could only really see the side of the man’s face. He had black hair and his stomach bulged up.

“Do you remember this fellow?” her father asked. “Look at him. Look at his face.”

Then she remembered. She’d seen the man. On TV. He looked older now and fatter than the last time she had seen him, but she did remember him. “That’s Matt something,” she said. “I remember him. He used to be on that show. He used to come here with his friend, the bald man, and you all used to go to the screening room and watch movies. Right?”

“That’s right, Sydnye. It’s Matt Hauser,” her father said.

Then she laughed. “I remember! I remember that he fell asleep that time while we were eating pizza at the restaurant by Paradise Cove. That was strange, Father.”

Her father nodded. “Good. Excellent memory. Very commendable. Yes, I recall that incident as well. Matt made a fool of himself that day. Did you know that Matt’s real name isn’t really Matt, child. It is Miguel. Miguel Herrera. I once produced his TV series. It was several years ago, when you were small. He was an actor on TV at that time. I helped him make a lot of money, but then he spent it all. Now all Miguel does is get drunk and smoke crack cocaine and go to jail for assault. Last night he came here in his car. To our home. He was intoxicated. He wanted money. I gave Anthony, at the gate, permission to allow him in. Then Matt fell asleep in his car, in front of our home. Before he fell asleep he rang the bell several times but I gave instructions for no one to admit him. Matt is what I call a misanthrope, Sydnye. That means he’s a fool. A mistake made by nature. Matt is human rubbish. Wastepipe rubbish. He is useless human rubbish. He’s asked your father for important favors before and then falsely claimed that he didn’t recall making the requests. So Matt is rubbish and Matt is also a liar of the worst kind. But today Matt will remember. He’ll remember everything because I’m going to show him how to remember. Today is a special day for you, my child. It’s a beginning. Today you will learn some of the things that your father has known for a long time—since he was your age. Special secrets, Sydnye. You are ten years old now and it is time that you learned.”

Her father picked up a blue bottle from the table and poured some of what was in it on to a piece of cotton, then he held the cotton over Matt Hauser’s nose.

Matt woke up right away. He looked confused and then, pretty soon, he looked afraid.

Father took a piece of thick cloth out of the pocket of his overalls and pushed the cloth into Matt’s mouth as Matt was trying to say something. Matt pulled on the straps at his hands and feet, but then he knew—he understood—that he couldn’t move. He was strapped down tight. Her father was smiling.

“Now Matt’s ready, Sydnye. Now it’s up to us to show Matt the things he must learn. Matt must learn pain, my child. He must learn to beg for his life. He must be taught the elegance of suffering. Your father knows the ways of suffering and how to administer pain. Soon Matt will beg your father. He will scream that he is sorry. He will scream and scream. But I will not hear him, because he is weak. And weakness is sickness, Sydnye. You see, my child, today you will begin to learn the special things that I know. I make that a promise to you. I will teach you my secrets, special things. Important things. We, you and I, will share those things together. There was once a great man named Nietzsche. He once wrote, ‘To live is to suffer—to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.’ Today, you will begin to understand the meaning in suffering. The suffering of others.”

Then her father motioned for her to come to his side of the wooden table. He unbuttoned his work suit, then pulled it down below his waist. He was smiling.

“Before we begin, Sydnye, you have to show Father how much you like him. You remember, just like we did the other times. Only this time I’m standing up. Remember?”

“I remember, Father.”

“I want Matt to watch, Sydnye. I want him to see how you do it. Now get down on your knees, child.”

“I don’t like the smell in here, Father. It stinks in here.”

“I know. I know it stinks. The smell is entirely unpleasant. But you’ll adjust to it. In time, child, it won’t bother you at all.”

TWENTY-FOUR

A
fter meeting Mendoza’s men, Davis and Majuski, at the Raddison in Santa Barbara and giving them enough information to handle their assignment, I registered Mom and Coco at the desk under Coco’s name—it was safer.

Then, leaving through the hotel’s rear entrance, I moved on to the Canary Hotel nearby.

After everything was set up, I got back in Mom’s Escalade and headed south, alone, toward L.A.

MY FIRST STOP
back on the West Side was at the surplus store on Venice Boulevard near Motor Avenue. I picked up what I needed there, then decided to phone Archer. I told the detective what had happened earlier at Mom’s house with Swan’s man and the moves I’d made to protect her and Coco. Archer agreed to meet me near police headquarters in Santa Monica, at the bar Chez Jay on Ocean Avenue. He said he’d bring Sydnye’s package and whatever else he had that was current on Swan. When I asked for his help with Mom and Coco, he said his hands were tied. There was no way he could get authorization for police protection in Santa Barbara. No crime had been committed.

AN HOUR LATER
I was drinking my Diet Coke and Archer his shooter at Chez Jay’s planked bar. Archer was not a subtle guy. He looked over both his shoulders, saw we were okay, then passed me what I needed. “You’re in over your head on this,” he whispered. “Just do me a favor and keep me up to speed as you go.”

“You told me you’d been bumped on this. Is that why you can’t get me help with my mother? Is that it?”

Archer nodded. “I might surprise you. I can still make a few moves if push comes to shove. I’m working on your Santa Barbara problem. I’ve got a friend or two left—whacked-out celebrity stalker cop that I am. If I ask the right way I can sometimes get what I need. I’ll let you know. But it isn’t me or your mother I’m worried about. You just poked a nasty gorilla with a sharp stick.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I got the old boy’s attention. The best way I know to get a gorilla to sit up and start snorting is to use that stick.”

”I never got the chance. Swan had his lawyers in the way every time I got close. My question to you is, are you sure about this? You can still back away. Your family’s on the line now.”

“I’m ready,” I said. “And I’m not backing off.”

Archer was sneering. “Swan recognized me at his AA birthday bash the other day. Between that and what happened at your mom’s house, he’s spooked and he’s looking over both shoulders. Any update on Sydnye?”

“Not yet. But if Swan knows, then his kid knows too. I’m drawing them out of their hole.”

“She’s probably close by. Closer than you think. And get rid of everything I just gave you, especially the information about the witness I had. No paper traces, okay?”

“Okay.”

AFTER I LEFT
Archer, I walked to Mom’s Escalade, which was parked at a meter on Ocean Avenue, twenty yards away. I removed my now authentic Handicapped placard from the inside rearview mirror and started the engine. On the seat next to me was the thin file on Sydnye and more backup documentation on Karl Swan. My eyes were stinging from tiredness and I decided to close them for a couple of minutes.

WAKING UP, I
looked down at the instrument panel and saw that I’d been asleep for ninety minutes. I’d also burned a quarter of a tank in Mom’s gas-guzzling Escalade.

I lit a cigarette and sucked in a deep hit, remembering to put the front windows down so Mom wouldn’t be too pissed off about the residual stink of tobacco. After that I pulled Archer’s files from the envelope on the seat next to me.

The stuff on Sydnye was contained in a clear plastic folder. While I was opening it, one of the sharp edges on the side cut a nasty little slash in my finger. Blood immediately appeared and began running down into my hand and dripping onto the leather seat. I had to dig in Mom’s glove box for several tissues to contain the mess.

The pages I read on Swan all had the Santa Monica Police Department masthead taped over, obscured. Archer had been careful. Almost everything we’d discussed before about Sydnye Swan and the witness Archer had found was there in his notes, along with the mention of Sydnye’s past involvement in martial arts and yoga and two websites and the list of possible known acquaintances. A workout studio in Brentwood on San Vicente Boulevard named Maha Combat was named as the place she may have trained.

After looking the file over again, I made some detail notes on the pocket pad I carried inside my jacket and then, as agreed with Archer, I got ready to destroy what he had given me.

Getting out of the Escalade, I walked to a street garbage can near Chez Jay’s entrance, removed the plastic report cover so I wouldn’t cut my hand again, then tore half of the actual paperwork into quarters, tossing the upper and lower quarter of the pages into the trash.

Then I crossed Ocean Avenue and did the same thing with the remainder of the file at another street can. After that I threw the plastic report cover on top.

I WAS CLOSE
enough to Sherman Toyota that I decided to drive by and maybe get Vikki’s attention from outside the showroom without going in. I’d had two calls from her cell number in the last twenty-four hours that I hadn’t responded to, plus another I didn’t recognize. I wanted to check in with her, in person.

It was Wednesday. I remembered that Wednesday was Max’s scheduled day off.

I rolled slowly past the dealership on my way to park the Escalade, looking along Lincoln Boulevard and Santa Monica Boulevard for tan Crown Vics as I went. I also glanced across the open sales lot, trying to spot Max’s SUV. It wasn’t there.

I WAS SITTING
in the Escalade with the passenger window down at the far end of the property, trying to spot Vikki, when Fernando stepped out from between two late-model Hybrids on the row of cars facing Ninth Street. He wasn’t smiling. “Jou push jou lukk, majn.”

“What’s up, amigo?”

“Cops been hejr too timz again in the lass couple days lookin’ por jou. Jou muss be hot as chit, Chay-Dee.”

I smiled at him while glancing over his shoulder at the showroom doors. “I try to keep moving, my friend. Hey,” I said, “where’s Vikki? I don’t see her demo. Is she inside?”

“No majn, cheesa quit. Jus walk in do Max’s offiz and tsay cheesa quit. Yserdae.”

“No kidding, that was sudden. What happened?”

“Done kno, majn. Cheeza juss go. No goo bye, no kiss my hass, no nocin. Den I hask Max. He juss sae min jour own bizniz. Maricon preek.”

VIKKI’S APARTMENT WAS
only four blocks away. I parked mom’s Escalade near the corner of California and Sixth and walked down the block to her building.

I was about to ring her front-door buzzer when a couple came out of the elevator next to the entrance door. The guy swung the door open for his lady, then held it open for me to enter. West Side yuppies out for a night on the town. I nodded thanks to the guy as I entered the building.

When I got to Vikki’s floor I felt a knot in my stomach. As I walked down the hall my brain began flashing on doing the same thing at my friend Woody’s place only days before. The feeling rattled me and my head began thumping harder than ususal.

Above me, as I got to her door, the hallway ceiling bulb was out. I was standing in cold semidarkness.

I sloughed off the bad thoughts. This was going to be a glad-to-see-you greeting. I liked this girl.

I knocked three times, then waited.

A few seconds later, when I heard no movement inside, I tried again.

Then I heard flip-flop footsteps against the parquet flooring of her interior front hallway. “Yes,” a voice called through the door.

“It’s JD, Vikki. I was in the neighborhood.”

It took ten seconds until she answered. “Oh. Hey, look, I’ve been sick. Call me, okay?”

“I’m just dropping by to say hi. Open the door.”

Another long pause, then: “Okay. Okay. Give me a minute.”

“Sure,” I said, “take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

It took a couple more minutes until I heard the double-locks flip and the door came open.

Vikki was without makeup and was wearing a dark robe cinched tight at the waist. Her hair was unwashed and she looked tired, older, sadder. “Yes,” she said, looking past me down the hall.

“Well, hey, howya doing?” I said. “You’ve been sick, huh?”

“Look, do you mind—some other time, okay?”

I was still smiling, trying to keep it going, still working off of the good vibes at our last meeting. “Well, can I at least come in for a minute?”

Her eyes wouldn’t connect with mine. “I just said I was sick.”

I rested my hand against the door frame next to her head. “What’s wrong here? What’s going on, Vikki?”

She wouldn’t look at me. “I just told you. Didn’t you listen?”

As I lowered my hand from the door frame, its metal sealer lining scraped against my cut finger and I said, “Ouch.”

I looked at the hand. It was bleeding again.

“I’m coming in,” I said, and started to push past her.

She reluctantly backed away and let me move inside. “What’s wrong,” she half-whispered.

“Nothing. I cut my finger. It’s bleeding.”

The living-room curtains were drawn and the only interior light came from the TV. The sound had been muted. On the coffee table was a near-empty bottle of the expensive-looking wine I’d seen the last time I was here. Next to it was a tall, smudged glass with nothing in it. I remembered Vikki telling me that she didn’t like TV.

“Hey,” I said, “you’re watching the tube. You must be really sick.”

Vikki flicked on a lamp. Her eyes were flat. “What do you want here? What do you want with me?”

“Look, Fernando told me that you quit at Sherman. Just walked into Max’s office and quit. What was that about?”

Now her eyes darkened. “Okay, I quit. So what? Why is that your business?”

Blood was running down my finger and into my hand. I held it up. “I need to use your bathroom. I need to wash this off.”

She pointed to a door ten feet away. “It’s there.”

INSIDE THE BATHROOM
I closed the door, then turned on the hot water. Next to the faucet was a holder for Vikki’s toothbrushes and a pink soap dish, and next to that I saw a white, flat plastic cap.

While I was waiting for the water to heat up, I glanced at my face in the mirror. Something was very wrong here. It was like this woman didn’t know me. My face in the mirror confirmed the feeling.

Holding the white plastic cap in my hand, I quietly pulled the medicine cabinet open. The top two shelves were full of prescription vials, as many as a dozen of them. Grouped together were four containers of sleeping pills. One of the vials was labeled Zaleplon. I’d been given Zaleplon before in the nuthouse for my insomnia. It was quick and effective but had only worked well for me short-term. I popped the vial open, dropped two of them into my hand, then slid the rest back into the vial. One night soon I would use them to get a decent night’s sleep.

On the bottom shelf, by itself, was an open container with only a couple of pills left inside. The cap in my hand fit the top of that vial.

I pulled the unlabeled bottle out and looked at the small pills inside. They were orange.

Then, remembering, I reached into my left front pants pocket and scrounged at the bottom. I came up with the orange pill I had asked the pharmacist about. I set it on the sink, away from the faucet, then removed one of Vikki’s tablets from the vial. Hers were an exact match in shade and size. I had found that pill between the seats of Woody’s Honda, and I knew that Woody never took meds. Those weren’t his. Suddenly—today—my friend Vikki had abruptly shape-shifted herself into another person. A person who took the same kind of meds I had found.

My mind began clicking. Vikki? Jesus!

AFTER WASHING MY
finger I patted the cut dry with toilet paper, tossed the wad into the crapper, then flushed it. Replacing the pill in the vial, I tucked it into the coat of my leather bomber jacket.

Standing there staring at my image in the mirror, I went back over what I knew about the woman in the living room—about what had happened over the last several weeks.

She had come to work for Sherman Toyota a few days after I’d started, almost as if on cue—just appearing on the sales floor one day. Then, shortly after—very shortly after—she’d begun showing interest in me. A coincidence? Was Vikki’s coming to work at the Toyota dealership part of some kind of plot? Her hostility and indifference just now had been the tell, a red flag. I had to know and I had to know now.

Quietly leaving the bathroom I made my way back into the dimly lit living room.

Vikki was standing next to her couch several feet away with one hand in her robe’s pocket and the other holding a corded phone, whispering. She hadn’t heard me. “I know,” she was saying in a low voice. “So what now?”

“Hang up, Vikki!” I boomed.

Turning toward me, she spit the words in my direction: “Get out of here! Get away from me!”

In one motion I pulled the phone from her hand, then yanked its wiring out of the wall.

Our bodies were now two feet apart.

Removing the pill vial from my jacket pocket, I held it up for her to see. “How long have you been taking these?” I demanded.

“None of your goddamn business!”

“These are the same pills that I found in my friend Woody’s car after he was killed.”

“Get out of my apartment! Now!”

“Tell me about Sydnye Swan, Vikki.”

I saw the muzzle of the gun for only a second as it came up in her left hand.

My reflex was to turn my body. Then I heard the sound and felt the impact at the same time.

Before she could fire a second time I used a crisscross slapping move to knock the gun to the floor. It was a small-caliber automatic.

Grabbing her by the hair I pulled her to the couch and shoved my knee into her stomach. Hard. While she was gasping for breath I yanked the belt from my pants loops and wrapped it around her wrists.

Then I leaned back and pulled my coat open.

The bullet that had penetrated the left side of my leather bomber jacket had ripped through the inside pocket. The notebook I carried there had a hole in it. Then the slug had exited at the back of the jacket. Point-blank range. Her bullet had missed me by no more than an inch.