"U" is for Undertow (45 page)

Jon’s black Jaguar finally tooled into sight at a leisurely speed. Walker was guessing he’d bypassed the freeway, opting to drive along the beach. It would be like him to take his time, leaving Walker to loiter on the corner like a bum. Jon pulled over and Walker opened the door on the passenger side, sliding into the seat.

Walker said, “Shit, this feels like we’re having an affair.”

“I didn’t think you did things like that.”

“Once for two months. Miserable experience. I swore off.”

“Carolyn catch you at it?”

“She knew something was going on, but she never figured it out.”

“Good for you. So where to?”

“You pick. I’m sick of being cooped up.”

Jon made a leisurely U-turn and headed for the entrance to the northbound 101. The car was silent and the ride was smooth. There was no conversation. Walker slouched in his seat and closed his eyes, so relaxed he nearly fell asleep. Nights at the Pelican were a bad mix—headlights turning into the parking lot at odd hours, pipes thumping. Walker would wake to the tap and scratch of footsteps passing along the walkway outside his door. The place wasn’t cheap, located as it was in the heart of Montebello, but the builder had cut corners. The shower was fiberglass and the bathroom vanity looked like something purchased from a cut-rate catalog. The kitchenette consisted of a hot plate, a toaster oven, and a tiny under-the-counter refrigerator too small to hold a pizza box.

Jon took an off-ramp and Walker raised an eyelid long enough to see that they were on Little Pony Road. Moments later Walker felt the car slow, turn left, and stop. Jon got out of the car, leaving the engine running. Walker roused himself from his reverie and looked out. He knew the place well, a pocket park once known as Passion Peak. Jon removed a chain stretched between two posts, barring vehicles. He returned to the car and took the road up and around two big bends until he reached the parking lot, where he pulled in, nose against the retaining wall. He shut down the engine. The two got out and began climbing the hill. They were well above the town, and once they reached the crest, the town would lie beneath them like a jewel. Walker carried his paper bag as they ascended from the parking lot to the small grassy meadow at the top, where six picnic tables were laid out.

Jon sat on a bench. Walker perched on the table, his legs dangling. A mist hovered at ground level, airy drifts of white. Trees sheltered the spot on three sides and the fourth was open to the view. The blackened remains of the bandstand hunkered in the dark behind them. In high school, this was the spot where the two of them had brought girls, more times than he cared to remember. He usually got the pretty one while Jon got stuck with the homely best friend. Walker opened his bag and removed the four candy bars. He offered Jon a Three Musketeers bar and kept the other three for himself.

Jon said, “I didn’t know you had a sweet tooth.”

“It’s weird. Now that I’m off alcohol, I crave sugar.”

Jon pulled the paper off his candy bar and bit in. “So what’s the big emergency?”

“I saw Michael Sutton this afternoon and he saw me. I came out of an AA meeting and he was there in the parking lot, picking up a girl. When Brent drove me back to the office, he followed.”

“So?”

“So why’s he tailing me? What if he goes to the police?”

“And says what? Two decades ago, we dug a hole. Big deal.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Oh, for god’s sake. You haul me out in the dead of night for this? You could have told me on the phone. The kid’s a punk. Nobody’s going to take him seriously. Besides, I can get to him anytime I want. He’s not a problem.”

“
Get
to him? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know where he lives. I’ve kept an eye on him for years, following his illustrious career path. He’s not a threat. He’s a loser and a wimp. He’s what we call ‘malleable.’ You can talk him into or out of anything. Everyone knows that.”

“There’s something else,” Walker said. He was silent for a moment. “I think I might turn myself in.”

The sentence hung in the air between them.

Walker couldn’t believe he’d said it, but once the words were out of his mouth, he knew the idea had been hovering at the back of his mind for weeks.

Jon’s expression was neutral. “What brought this on?”

Walker shook his head. “I’ve been having panic attacks and they’re wearing me down. I’m tired of feeling tired. The damn anxiety’s tearing me apart. It didn’t bother me so much when I was drinking, but now . . .”

“So talk to your doctor about a sedative. Better living through chemistry.”

“Wouldn’t help. I mean, look at me. My life’s in the toilet. Carolyn’s kicked me out. I hardly see my kids. I killed a girl, for Christ’s sake. I can’t live this way.”

Bemused, Jon said, “Which step is this?”

“What?”

“AA’s famous twelve steps. Which one is this? Your ‘fearless moral inventory,’ am I right?”

“You know what, Jon? I don’t need your snide fucking comments. I’m serious about this.”

“I have no doubt. And what do you propose?”

“I don’t know yet. You should have seen me today, skulking around on side streets so Michael Sutton wouldn’t spot me and figure out where I work. It’s all catching up with us. And here’s the irony: for years, I drank to wipe out the guilt and all I managed to do was turn around and kill someone else.”

Jon shook his head. “Jesus, Walker. You’re deluding yourself. You don’t drink because you feel guilty. You drink because you’re a drunk. Get a clue. Confessing won’t change anything.”

“You’re wrong. I know I’m a drunk and I’ll deal with it. This is something else. I want to be square with life. I want to make amends. You’ve found a way to live with what we did. I can’t. I want it off my chest.”

“Good for you. Perfect. But your so-called amends will put my ass in a sling.”

“That doesn’t necessarily follow,” Walker said.

“You’re full of shit. How can you admit what you did without implicating me?”

“I’ll handle it. This is not about you.”

Jon seemed amused. “What are you picturing? You go to the cops and turn yourself in. You tell ’em what you did; you’re now so very sorry and you want to make it right?” He stopped and studied Walker, waiting for a response. “You’re never going to make it right. There’s no way. We fucked up big time. That little girl is dead.”

Walker said, “It would have helped if you’d read the label.”

“Would you get off that shit? I did. I told you a thousand times. Everybody takes Valium. Ten-milligram tabs are no big deal.”

“Guess again.”

“Fine. You can make that part of your pitch.”

“I will.”

“So what exactly do you hope to accomplish in your feverish eagerness to unburden your soul?”

“I need to find a way to live with myself. That’s all I’m saying. I want to clean up the mess we made.”

“Live with yourself ? Well, that won’t last long. You’re talking about felony murder, for which you’ll get the death penalty. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not. If there were any other way out, don’t you think I’d jump at it?”

“How the fuck do you expect to go up against the cops? They’ll grill your sorry ass from here to next Tuesday until you tell ’em what went down. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you didn’t act alone. They’ll want you to name names, and mine’s the only one on the list.”

“I already told you this isn’t about you.”

“Yes, it is, you asshole. It’s about me the minute you open your damn mouth, which I’m telling you not to do.”

“Maybe I can make a deal. I tell ’em what I know as long as I don’t have to talk about anyone else. Just my part.”

“Great. That’s swell. I can see it now. ‘Gosh, Mr. FBI Agent, I’m willing to incriminate myself, but I want to be fair to the other guy.’ That’s not how it happens. Not with those guys. You’ve got no leverage. I’m the only thing you have to trade. Once you give yourself up, you’ll turn around and give me up, too.”

Walker’s tone shifted. “You’re forgetting it was your idea.”

“My idea? Bullshit. It was Destiny’s dumb-ass plan.”

“But she didn’t act on it and neither did Creed. You were the one who figured all the angles—”

“While you were doing what?”

“I did what you told me. You were always the man in charge. It was your show from the get-go. Now there’s a price to pay. This isn’t easy for me, you know? I have a wife and kids. What do you think is going to happen to them if I come forward?”

“Correction. You
had
a wife and kids. Now you got shit. You’re living in a crappy motel, dining on candy bars. Carolyn tossed you out on your ass.” He gestured impatiently. “Oh, skip that. Who cares? How much does she know, or do I dare inquire?”

“Nothing. I’ve never breathed a word to her.”

“Well, that’s a comfort. Walker, listen to me. I’m begging you to think about this and think hard. You’re in a righteous lather because you want to cleanse your own soul, but the first time you speak up, you’ll fall into a pile of shit from which you’ll never extract yourself. You can’t put me in the line of fire in the name of conscience.”

“It’s going to look better if I own up to my part before Michael Sutton rats us out. I’ve got that private eye breathing down my neck. She’s already put part of it together, the business about the dead dog. I didn’t think she could make the connection, but now it seems pretty fuckin’ obvious that I’m it.”

“So you’re linked to a dead dog? Why would that inspire your running to the cops? It’s not like that shit our parents laid on us when we were kids. ‘All you have to do, son, is tell the truth. As long as you’re honest, there won’t be any punishment.’ ”

Walker shook his head. “It’s only a matter of time before this whole thing blows. I can feel it in my bones.”

“If you quit worrying and keep your mouth shut, we’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Maybe I haven’t made myself clear. I love the life I lead. I’m fond of my own ass. I don’t want to die. I’m a respectable member of the community and I won’t go down without a fight.”

“Then you better come up with an alternative. I’m giving you fair warning. That’s the best I can do.”

 

 

When I got home from work, I tossed the mail on the kitchen counter, turned on the lights, and sat down at my desk. I needed to organize my thoughts. With the investigation in tatters, it seemed imperative to catalog what I knew, consigning the details to index cards. There had to be a pattern, an overview into which all the little pieces would fit. Like an optical illusion, I was waiting for the shift, one image flipping over to its counterpart.

In both junior high and high school, I had trouble staying focused in classes where I was doing poorly, math being my weakest subject. Faced with a “thought” problem, my mind inevitably wandered to other matters. The math whizzes grasped the setup on sight. Not only could they divine the crux of the matter, but they’d start licking their pencil points and scribble the solution while I was still squirming in my seat. I wasn’t stupid by any stretch. I was easily distracted and my attention would shift to details that turned out to be irrelevant.

A train leaves Chicago for Boston traveling sixty miles an hour, while a second train leaves Boston, speeding toward Chicago at eighty miles an hour. A bird flies back and forth between the two
. . .

And that’s as far as I’d get. I’d start wondering why the bird was behaving so erratically, positing a virus affecting the bird’s internal gyroscope. I’d daydream about who was on the train and why they were going from Chicago to Boston. Then I’d fret about what was happening in Boston that residents had crowded into the fastest train out. I’d never been to Boston and now I was forced to scratch it off my list.

What I experienced jotting down my notes was just another version of the same. I couldn’t “get” the big picture. I couldn’t grasp what was going on, so I found myself attending to issues that probably had nothing to do with anything. For instance, I wondered what they’d added to Rain’s lemonade that knocked her out. Probably some over-the-counter sleep aid, though the proper dosage must have been a trick. I thought about the kidnapper dressed as Saint Nick, curious how he’d come up with a Santa Claus suit in early July. Short of working in a department store at Christmas or standing outside a supermarket ringing a Salvation Army bell, it couldn’t be an easy outfit to rent in the middle of summer. There was no point in checking local costume shops to see if there were records going back that far. I could do it, but after twenty-one years, I’d be spinning my wheels, staying busy for the sake of it instead of canvassing with any hope of success.

I tossed my pen aside. This was pointless. Usually I surrender to the process, letting my thoughts idle while my attention is otherwise occupied. Recording minutiae is a form of play, temporarily derailing the analytical side of my brain. At the moment, frustration was jamming my circuits. There was something distinctly unpleasant about pondering the same disjointed facts when nothing new was coming in. I could fiddle the story any way I liked and the bottom line was the same. Michael Sutton was wrong. He’d made a mistake. Everything that rested on his basic premise was out the window.

Irritably I gathered the cards, secured them with a rubber band, and stuck them in a drawer. Enough of this. I needed Henry’s company and his counsel. I opened the front door and peered across to Henry’s kitchen. All his lights were out. I picked up my jacket and shoulder bag, locked my front door, and made a beeline for Rosie’s. I spotted him the moment I walked in. I pulled out a chair and sat down, peering at the plate Rosie had just put in front of him.

To her, he said, “Thank you, dear. It looks lovely.” He smiled, watching her depart.