The Interview (28 page)

I suddenly had an epiphany! Glorious things, epiphanies. Especially
for a guy who rarely has them. I knew what she was doing. I knew why
she hadn't arrested me. I knew everything there was to know about
Officer Bradford in that moment of total clarity.

Everything except her name, of course.

“What is your first name?”

“All right. Since we are now bound together. It's Samantha, but
everyone calls me-”

“Sam,” I finished. I should have known. “I'm going
to go find our waiter.”

I FOUND HIM. I PLACED her order and gave him my last twenty to cover
the bill. I was no longer hungry, and I had decided it was time for
to me leave. I liked her. Her heart was in the right place, I think,
but what she was looking for didn't really interest me. She wanted
the same thing as Tristan, Mr. Bat, and to a lesser degree the same
thing as Kim did when she asked me to dinner. Sam Bradford wanted
justice the old-fashioned way. Plain and simple. Somewhere along the
line, she had decided that bad guys didn't get what they deserved and
so she had searched for a way to ensure they did. Tristan, and his
morally convoluted operation, suited her view of what was right. I
wondered how long he had been in her sights before she came to the
conclusion that he was doing good things for the women who came into
his care. Then I came along. She must have been ecstatic to see me
coming. I, once again, was the perfect tool for her, and everyone
else it seemed like.

I felt like a puppet. I felt used.

I hopped in my car, plugged my iPod player into the stereo, and began
my journey north. It was 2:37 AM. I could be at my destination in a
little shy of six hours. I cranked some
Disturbed
and
left Placentia behind.

I stopped at the base of the Grapevine to top off my tank. Inside, I
grabbed two Monsters, and a four-pack of 6-Hour Energy. I drank one
of the 6-Hours before I got in the car, then another one before I
pulled out of the gas station. I sipped a Monster, smoked, and let
the music crowd out all other thought.

Two hours later I stopped at Harris Ranch, gassed up, and drank
another bottle of Energy. Wired was not an accurate description of my
mental state! My heart might explode at any moment. I hit Interstate
5 at 110 mph. “Heavy” from
Collective
Soul
came on and I cranked the volume up as loud as it
could go. The Cougar growled like its namesake. My nerves hummed and
jumped. I pressed the accelerator down more and I hit 130 mph. I flew
through Coalinga and it's stench of manure and death. Pleasant Valley
State Prison and Coalinga State Hospital are located a few miles west
of the Interstate. The state prison is a minimum to medium security
prison and is the residence of Sirhan Sirhan, Robert Kennedy's
assassin. It occurred to me that I might end up there someday if I
was ever tied to the fire. The state hospital, on the other hand,
houses almost 1,000 violent sexual predators. The worst of the worst,
is the rumor. I wouldn't end up there, thankfully. Is it a wonder I
was speeding as I past through this lovely hole of an area? I doubt
it would fly with the CHP, but it could be worth a shot.

A few hours ago I had poured gasoline on a bar, then torched it. It
meant nothing to me. It was done and over with it. Did I need to burn
the place to the ground? Probably not. Did I regret it? Definitely
not. The possibility of prison was not enough to get through my
defective frontal lobe anymore than Frankie's emotional tantrum. My
conscience does not bother me in the least, for its messages are lost
right along with happiness, sadness, loss, and fear. I am a
psychopath.

That didn't bother me either.

I had decreased my speed in proportion to the height of the sun, and
by then I was cruising along at 70 mph. I hit the city limits of
Santa Rosa just after seven. The cell phone started ringing shortly
thereafter.

As I've said, I don't own a cell phone. That reality did not change
the fact that there was a cell phone ringing in my glovebox. I
reached across and hit the button. The panel fell open and there was
the cell phone. I retrieved it, flipped it open and said, “Hello.”

“Good morning, Kelly.”

“Morning, Mr. Bat. How's Seattle?”

“Beautiful as always. Are you on the way to the airport?”

“No.”

There was a pause. I waited to be reprimanded. I checked for cops.
The last thing I needed was to be pulled over for talking on a phone
that wasn't even mine.

“You will miss your flight.”

“It's OK. I'm in Santa Rosa. I figured you were tracking me in
the Batmobile. I'm going to get some breakfast then cruise over to
your friend's house. Cool?”

“You drove?”

“I did. I had a busy night last night. Didn't feel like sitting
around waiting for a plane.”

“Busy?”

“Listen, I really don't feel like catching you up on events
right at this moment. I'm in a good place, and you're just killing my
buzz. I'm sure you can figure things out all on your own. I'm hanging
up now. Bye.”

I closed the phone, then tossed it out my window. In the side mirror,
I watched it bounce down the freeway in little pieces. Prick. I spied
an IHOP sign. I exited the 101 Freeway and went to get me some
pancakes.

AN HOUR LATER, STUFFED WITH pancakes and bouncing with five more cups
of coffee to keep the buzz going, I left IHOP and rejoined the 101. I
followed the directions on the paper Mr. Bat had supplied with some
trepidation. Google and MapQuest are usually pretty good when it
comes to getting the average idiot from point A to point B. There are
occasions, however, when I have serious doubts about the programmers
who designed the respective programs. Not a week goes by without some
lost soul flagging me down as I deliver the mail to ask directions.
It's the same every time. They hand me the page with the directions
to some address in another city. I review the page to see that they
followed the instructions to the letter only to find themselves in
the middle of my neighborhood when they were trying to find a
business or rugby tournament in Anaheim or Fullerton. I have the same
problem with iTunes and album covers. Technology is great, but
seriously, Led Zeppelin III does not have the same cover as Led
Zeppelin IV. According to iTunes it does, however.

Sometimes I borrow the lost soul's cell phone, call the office, and
get a supervisor to help them out. Other times I don't. Depends on my
mood and the weather and other variables that I can't quite put my
finger on.

This time, Google got it right, and ten minutes after I departed
IHOP, I parked in front of 419 Briarwood Ct. The house was a light
blue, white trimmed, single-storey “L” shaped ranch-style
home. The backyard looked large, stretching away from a chain link
fence that was interwoven with thin pieces of wood. The yard was well
maintained.

The top half of the door had four panes of glass with a simple lace
curtain to prevent people from looking inside. Probably wasn't very
effective at stopping rocks, but maybe she didn't worry about that
kind of stuff. I rang the doorbell. I listened to the muffled sound
of SpongeBob, as several tiny feet suddenly scampered about inside.
“Mom! Somebody's at the door!”

I tried to look as nonthreatening as possible as the white lace
curtain was pulled aside to reveal the face of a woman in her mid to
late thirties. She stared at me. I smiled and waved. She stared at
me.

“Tracey Middleton?” Same stare. She wasn't making this
real easy on me. I couldn't blame her. I'm not sure how helpful I
would be if I came knocking on my door unannounced at 8:30 on a
Sunday morning. Actually, I wouldn't be helpful at all.

I rolled my eyes, put my hands up where she could see them and the
envelope in my right hand. “I was asked to deliver this to
you.” I showed her the name written on the envelope as if that
was some kind of proof that I had no intention of killing her. She
glanced at the name and her eyes flickered so fast I wasn't sure if
it was a trick of light or something else. She let the lace fall
back, and then the door opened.

“Who gave you that?” she asked. The left side of her body
was concealed by the door. She was still in her robe. Her hair looked
sleepy. The gun in her right hand looked wide awake. Once again I
found myself with a gun I could not identify pointed at me.

I glanced at the gun. Heard SpongeBob utter his grating laugh
followed by multiple children uttering their own beautiful sounds of
amusement. “I really don't want to get shot this morning, Ms.
Middleton. I mean you and your family no harm. I'm just here to
deliver this envelope. I'm a mailman.” I'm sure the last put
her at complete ease.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No. I really am. I work in Southern California. It's just a
coincidence that I'm delivering a letter to you. Nothing to do with
anything, really. I just say stupid things when a gun is pointed at
me.”

“Who sent you?”

How exactly was I supposed to answer that? All the available answers
sounded absolutely insane to me. A guy in a mask. A Stormtrooper.
Batman. I settled on the truth. “I have no idea.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Great question. If I ever figure that out I will write you a
letter and mail it to you.” Still she stared at me. The gun
hadn't moved a centimeter. This was lame.

“You know what,” I said. “Fine.” I dropped
the envelope on the ground. “Sorry I freaked you out so early
in the morning. You have a good one.”

I took five steps and was convinced that she was going to let me walk
away when she said, “Wait.”

I turned but said nothing.

“Is he OK?”

“Physically? Yeah he's fine. Mentally? Not sure if I'm the
one you should be asking about that. He's not really on the top of my
list of favorite people right now.”

“But you don't know him?”

“I know him, but I don't know who he is. He's kind of partial
to masks.”

She frowned. Something wasn't computing with her. I could sympathize.
None of this computed as far as I was concerned. I had been up for
more than twenty-four hours. The police could be searching for me. I
was a long way from home and my comfort zone. I waited. It was the
least I could do considering the drive that awaited me when I left
here.

“Masks . . .”

“Superheroes mostly,” I added.

She widened her eyes briefly in frustration. She shook her head from
side to side. “This is so unlike him.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He's risking so much by sending you here. It doesn't make
any sense.”

I glanced at the envelope on the ground. “Maybe there's
something in the envelope.”

She looked down as if she had never considered that possibility.
Slowly, she bent down and picked the envelope up. Mr. Bat would have
been proud that the gun never wavered in its aim. She managed to open
the envelope without lowering the weapon, then slipped a piece of
paper from within. I stood there while she read. The same stunned,
confused expression remained on her face for the minute or so it took
her to digest the meaning of the letter. The gun's aim changed to the
ground rather than my belly. She looked up and said, “You
should come inside.”

“You going to put the gun away.”

“Of course.”

“OK then.”

I stepped inside and she shut the door behind me. To my right was a
living room and kitchen. Three young girls sat on the couch and
stared at my appearance. The youngest looked about seven, the next
maybe nine, the oldest twelve or thirteen. I smiled. They stared.

“Girls, this is Mr. Jenks. He's a friend.” The gun had
vanished into the folds of her robe.

“Hi, girls,” I said. Normally kids warm right up to me.
Ask me for lighters and stuff like that.

“Good morning, Mr. Jenks,” they said in a harmonious
greeting that could have been creepy but wasn't.

“Jennifer, I'm going to get dressed. Will you please get Mr.
Jenks a cup of coffee.”

“Sure, Mom.”

“Thank you, babe.” To me she said, “I'll be right
back.” There was an unspoken threat in the words but I ignored
it. She was a mom after all.

Jennifer, the oldest girl, slid off the couch and slipped past me
into the kitchen. I peeked at the television. SpongeBob and Patrick
were beating the crap out of each other with weapons made of snow. A
squirrel on steroids appeared and expressed her displeasure. Sandy in
hibernation mode. This was one of my favorite episodes. I watched and
laughed at the right places and it seemed to put the girls at ease
somewhat.

“Here you are, Mr. Jenks,” Jennifer said from my right.
I turned and noted that she had placed the mug on the table along
with a bottle of creamer and a sugar bowl.

“Perfect. Thank you.” I took a seat, poured some creamer
into the mug, then took a drink. Considering the amount of caffeine I
had ingested over the last eight hours, the java tasted excellent.
Jennifer positioned herself between her sisters and I. I would have
to go through her to get to them. Duly noted and much respect to the
eldest daughter. She looked like her mom. Green eyes, straight
reddish brown hair to her shoulders, and the same bewildered look
underlined with protectiveness.

I sipped my coffee and waited for Tracey.

“So you're a friend of my mom's?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Never seen you before. Never heard of you. In what manner of
speaking are you a friend?”

“A mutual friend, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrowed. She did not like that answer. “My mom's
upset. Are you here to upset your mutual friend?”

“No, Jennifer. I'm not here to upset her.” The young
woman was smart, direct, and her bullshit radar was on full blast. I
could almost feel myself being pinged. What the hell was going on
here? What had these women gone through?