The Last Detective (28 page)

Pike thought that if he was going to die, he might as well die here, and he might as well die doing this.

But not yet.

Pike went into the deepest part of himself, a green leafy world of quiet and peace. It was the only place where Pike could truly be free, safe in his aloneness, and at peace with himself. Pike went to that place now, and he drew strength.

Pike stared into Fallon's animal eyes. Fallon sensed that something had changed. Fear played over his face.

Pike's mouth twitched.

The gun moved toward Fallon.

Cole

T
he scars on Ibo's face glowed violet as he tried to turn the knife. He was a large, strong man, and he wanted to live, but I pushed so hard that the room darkened around me and filled with starburst speckles. Ibo's arm broke with a wet crack and his wrist folded. He moaned. More shots rang out behind me, but they seemed a part of someone else's world and not mine.

The knife touched the hollow at the base of Ibo's throat. Ibo tried to swing me away, but I held tight to his broken arm and pushed. He hissed as the knife went in. I pushed. The knife slid deep. Ibo's eyes grew wider. His mouth opened and closed. I pushed until the knife wouldn't go farther, then Ibo made a long sigh and his eyes lost focus.

I let go and watched him fall. He slumped like a great tall tree and took forever to hit the floor.

I turned, barely able to stand. Eric Schilling was crumpled in a heap on the money. Ben was with Richard. Pike and Fallon were locked together on the floor, struggling. I picked up the shotgun and staggered over to them. I pointed the shotgun at Fallon's head.

I said, “That's it.”

Fallon looked up.

“That's it, you sonofabitch. It's over.”

Fallon studied the end of the shotgun, then stared at me. They had a pistol between them. They were fighting for it.

I shouldered the shotgun.

“Let go of it, Fallon. Let go.”

Fallon glanced at Pike, then nodded.

The pistol between them fired one loud time—BOOM!—and I thought Joe had been shot, but Fallon slumped back against the wall. Pike rolled away fast and came up with the pistol, ready in case Fallon made a move, but Fallon only blinked down at the hole in his chest. He seemed surprised to see it even though he had made it himself. He looked up at us. Then he was dead.

I said, “Ben?”

I staggered sideways, and fell to a knee. It hurt. My hand was bleeding badly. It hurt, too.

“Ben?”

Ben was trying to make Richard stand up. Richard moaned, so I guessed he was still hanging on. Pike kept me from falling onto my face, and pushed a handkerchief into my hand.

“Wrap your hand and see about Ben. I'll get an ambulance.”

I tried to stand again, but couldn't, so I crawled to Ben Chenier. I put my arms around him.

“I found you, Ben. I have you. I'm going to bring you home.”

Ben shuddered like he was freezing, and sobbed words that I did not understand. Pike called for an ambulance, then eased us aside. He tied off Richard's leg with his belt to stop the bleeding, then used Schilling's shirt as a compress on the belly wound. I held Ben tight through it all, and never once let go.

“I have you,” I said. “I have you.”

The sirens came as Ben's tears soaked my chest.

26
            

T
he ambulance arrived before the first of the radio cars. Ben wanted to go with his father to the hospital, but the paramedics, correctly and like always, would not allow it. More sirens were coming. That would be the police.

Pike said, “I'll wait. You take Ben.”

Ben and I crossed the street to my car. The one dog still howled, making me wonder if it was alone. People from the neighboring houses milled in their front yards, watching the ambulance. Living here wouldn't be the same anymore.

I held Ben until the first radio car arrived. They didn't scream to a screeching stop like you see on TV; they cruised slowly up the street because they didn't know what they would find. We got into my car.

I said, “Let's call your mom.”

When Lucy realized it was me, she said, “Is Ben all right? Please God tell me he's all right.”

Her voice shook.

“He's as right as he could be. It was bad, Luce. It was awful.”

“Oh, thank God. Jesus God, thank you. What about Richard?”

Ben sat quietly while I told Lucy what happened. I was careful in what I said; I didn't know if Ben knew about Richard's involvement, and I didn't want him to hear it from me. Lucy and Richard could tell him, or maybe they wouldn't tell him at all. If she wanted me to pretend that none of this happened, I would. If she wanted me to keep it from Ben, I would. If she wanted me to lie to the police and in court to cover for Ben's father, I would do that, too.

I told her where they were bringing Richard, and offered either to take Ben home or meet her at the hospital. She said she would meet us, then asked if she could speak with her son.

I gave the phone to Ben.

“Your mom.”

Ben didn't say anything as we drove to the hospital, but he held onto my arm, and, when I wasn't shifting or steering, I held onto him.

We reached the hospital first. We sat on a long bench in the ER waiting room while the doctors did their work. We sat close, with my arm around his shoulders. Before it was done, Richard Chenier would have been in surgery for eighteen hours. That's a long time under the knife.

Two West L.A. detectives arrived along with a uniformed sergeant-supervisor. They asked the admitting nurse about the gunshot victim, then the older detective walked over. He had short blond hair and glasses.

He said, “Excuse me. Are you with the man who was shot?”

“No.”

“What's that on your pants?”

“Barbeque sauce.”

He moved on to ask the next person.

Ben said, “Why'd you say no?”

“Your mom's going to be here soon. We don't want to be stuck in a room with those guys.”

He seemed to understand that.

I watched the cops until they returned to the admitting desk, then I leaned toward Ben. Here was this little ten-year-old boy. He looked so small. He looked so young.

I said, “How're you doing?”

“I'm okay.”

“You saw some awful stuff today. You had some really bad things happen. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to talk about it.”

“I wasn't scared.”

“I was scared. I was really, really scared. I'm really scared right now.”

Ben looked at me, and then frowned.

“Maybe I was a little scared.”

“You want a Coke or something?”

“Yeah. Let's see if they have Mountain Dew.”

We were looking for the soft-drink machine when Lucy came through the sliding doors. Her strides were so fast that she might have been running. We spotted her first.

I called to her.

“Lucy!”

Ben took off running.

“Mommy!”

Lucy crumbled into tears. She hugged Ben so tight that she might have been trying to crush him into her body. She covered him with kisses and smeared him with tears, but that was all right. Every boy wants that from his mother whether he admits it or not. Especially on days like this. I'm sure of it. I know that for a fact.

I walked over. I stood near. If the detectives thought anything of it, they were kind enough not to intrude.

Lucy opened her eyes and saw me. She cried harder, and then she opened her arms.

I said, “I brought him home.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

I held them as hard as I could, but even that wasn't enough.

27
            

S
ixteen days later, Lucy came to my house to tell me good-bye. It was a bright, crisp afternoon. No hawks floated overhead, no coyotes had sung for as long as I could remember, but the owl had come back to the pine tree. The night before, he called me.

Lucy and Ben had given up their apartment in Beverly Hills. Lucy had left her job. They were moving back to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Ben was already there with his grandparents. I understood; really, I did. These things don't happen to normal people, and shouldn't.

They weren't going back for Richard.

Lucy said, “After all that happened to him, Ben needs to be with familiar people and places. He needs to feel safe and secure. I've got a house in our old neighborhood. He'll have his old friends.”

We stood on the deck, side by side at the rail. We had spoken often these past sixteen days. We had talked over what she would do, and why, but she was still uneasy and awkward. Here we were, saying good-bye. Here she was, leaving. She would be seeing me soon enough. Richard had been indicted.

The two of us didn't say very much that afternoon, but most of it had already been said. Being with her still felt good to me. We had been way too good and way too special to end it on awkward moments or bad feelings. I didn't want that.

I gave her my best smile, the Studly Do-Right Eye-Wiggle Special, and bumped her hip. Mr. Playful. Mr. Brave.

“Luce, you've only said that eight hundred times. You don't have to say it again. I understand. I think it's right for Ben.”

She nodded, but still looked awkward. Maybe it had to be awkward.

I said, “I'm going to miss you. I'm going to miss Ben. I miss you guys already.”

Lucy blinked hard and stared at the canyon. She leaned far out on the rail, maybe hoping that I wouldn't notice, or maybe trying to see something that she hadn't yet seen.

She said, “God, I hate this part.”

“You're doing this for Ben and for you. It's right for you. I'm good with that.”

She pushed in from the rail and came close to me. It was all I could do not to cry.

My voice was a whisper.

“Don't say it. Please don't say it.”

“So long as you know.”

Lucy Chenier turned and ran into my house. The front door shut. Her car started, then pulled away.

I said, “Good-bye.”

28
            

M
y phone rang two days after Lucy left. It was Starkey.

She said, “You gotta be the luckiest asshole I know.”

“Who is this?”

“Very funny. Ha ha.”

“What's up?”

Joe Pike and I were painting my deck. After the deck, we were going to paint my house. I might even wash my car.

I said, “No offense, but I'm expecting my lawyer to call. We have this little matter of felony burglary.”

Pike looked over from the end of the deck. His hands and arms were gray from sanding dried filler and spackle. The postal service that we destroyed was owned by a man named Fadhim Gerella. We had repaid Mr. Gerella for the damage we had done to his business, as well as additional money for lost business during the time he was closed. Mr. Gerella was happy with that, and had refused to press charges, though the San Gabriel District Attorney was being tough about it.

Starkey said, “Your lawyer's going to call, all right, but I'm going to tell you first.”

“Tell me what?”

Pike glanced over.

“I just got off the phone with my guy down at Parker about that. You're in the clear, Cole. You and Mr. Sunglasses. The governments of Sierra Leone, Angola, and El Salvador—three fucking
governments,
Cole—interceded in your behalf. You bozos aced three turds up for
genocide,
dude. They'll probably give you a fuckin' medal.”

I sat on the deck.

“I don't hear anything, Cole. You still with me?”

“Hang on.”

I cupped the phone and told Pike. He never looked up from the sanding.

Starkey said, “Does this call for a celebration or what? How about I buy you some sushi and eight or ten drinks? Better yet, how about you pay? I'm a cheap date—I don't drink.”

“You want to take us out?”

“Not Pike, moron. Just you.”

“Starkey, are you asking me out?”

“Don't be so full of yourself.”

I wiped the sweat and the dust from my eyes, and stared out over the canyon.

“Cole? Did you faint from the excitment?”

“Don't take this wrong, Starkey. I like it that you asked, but this isn't a good time for me.”

“Okay. I get that.”

“It's been kinda hard.”

“I understand, Cole. Forget it. Listen, I'll call you another time.”

Starkey hung up. I put down my phone, and stared at the canyon. A dark speck floated over the ridge. Soon, it was joined by another. I went to the rail and watched them. I smiled. The hawks were back.

Pike said, “Call her.”

I took the phone inside, and, after a while, I did.

I
have the dream often now, almost every night, some nights more than once: The sky darkens; the tortured oaks sway heavy with moss; the night's soft breeze stirs with anger and fear. I am once more in that nameless place of graves and monuments. I stare down at the hard black rectangle, burning to know who lies within the earth, but no name marks this resting place. I have spent my whole life searching for the secrets I do not know.

The earth calls my name.

I stoop. I place my palms on the marble, and gasp at the cold. Ice crawls up my arms like ants beneath my skin. I lurch to my feet and try to run, but my legs will not answer. The wind rises, bending the trees. Shadows flicker at the edge of light, and voices whisper.

My mother appears in the mist. She is young, the way she was, and fragile as a baby's breath.

“Mama! Mama, help me!”

She floats against the wind like a spirit.

“Please, you have to help me!”

I reach for her, praying she will take my hand, but she hovers without response as if she does not see. I want her to save me from the secrets here. I want her to protect me from the truth.

“I'm scared. I don't want to be here, but I don't know how to leave. I don't know what to do.”

I hunger for her warmth. I need the safety of her arms. I try to go to her, but my feet are rooted deeply.

“I can't move. Help me, Mama.”

She sees me. I know she sees me because her eyes fill with sorrow. I reach for her until my shoulders scream but she is too far away. I am furious. I hate her and love her in the same awful moment.

“Goddamnit, I don't want to be alone anymore. I never wanted to be alone.”

The winds rise to a howl; a bit of her blows away like smoke.

“Mama,
please!
Don't leave me again!”

Cracks scribe over her as if she were a puzzle. A piece of her blows away. Then another.

“Mama!”

The pieces that were my mother blow away. Not even a shadow remains. Not even a shadow.

She is gone. She has left me.

I stare at the grave with a broken heart. In the strange way of this life, a shovel appears in my hands. If I dig, I will find; if I find, I will know.

The black earth opens.

The casket is revealed.

A voice that is not my own pleads for me to stop, to look away, to save myself from what lies here, but I no longer care. I am alone. I want the truth.

I push my hands into the cold earth and pry my fingers beneath the lid. Splinters pierce my flesh. The casket opens with a scream.

I stare at the small body, and I am looking at myself.

The child is me.

He opens his eyes. He sobs with joy as I lift him from the crypt, and throws his arms around me. We hold each other tight.

“It's all right,” I say. “I found you, and I will never leave.”

The wind rages. Leaves tumble across the tombs and the damp mist cuts through my clothes, but all that matters is that I have found him.

His laughter is a chime in the darkness. So is mine.

“You're not alone,” I say. “You will never again be alone.”