“You done?” asked Jack.
I nodded, sitting back, my heart yammering in my chest.
“Nobody dies without the spirit’s consent,” said Jack.
“So a child who’s kidnapped, raped and buried alive gives such a consent.”
“Yes.”
“But they’re a fucking child, Jack. How the fuck could a child make that kind of a decision?”
“The decision was made long ago.”
“Long ago? You mean in a place where time suddenly does exist?”
He ignored my sarcasm.
“Prior to taking on the body, the soul made an agreement with another soul-”
I cut him off; this was just pissing me off.
“An agreement to allow themselves to be raped and killed? How very generous of the soul.”
Jack looked at me for a long moment.
“Yes,” he said. “Very generous.”
“And that’s supposed to comfort a grieving mother? A mother who, say, just lost her child to a sick-ass motherfucker?”
“Such a death serves many purposes, Jim. There is a ripple effect that will touch many, many lives for generations to come.”
“Fine. Many lives are touched. It’s a noble act of sacrifice. But it’s the thought of their child suffering that drives parents mad with grief. The fact that their baby suffered at the hands of an animal.”
Jack said nothing, although he did finally sip his coffee. Glad to see he still had his taste for coffee.
Finally, he said, “You might be pleased to know that a spirit may leave the body whenever it wants.”
“A child could leave its body?”
“Yes.”
“And not suffer?”
Jack looked at me and smiled very deeply and kindly, and I saw, for the first time ever, that there were tears in his eyes.
“And not suffer,” he said.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
55.
Two days later I was in San Diego, about an hour and a half south from Huntington Beach.
It was 10:00 a.m. sharp and I was sitting alone in a leather sofa in an ornate office overlooking the lush playing field at Qualcomm Stadium. The field, as viewed through the massive window, was empty.
The office was covered with photographs of past personnel and players. I recognized almost all of them, since football was my life. Not to mention, I had taken a particularly keen interest in the San Diego Chargers since their last offer.
I was dressed to the nines in khakis and cordovan loafers and a blue silk shirt that accentuated my blue eyes. At least that’s what I’m told.
A door opened and a little bald man with gold rimmed glasses came in. He saw me, smiled brightly, and moved over to me with surprising speed. Of course, it shouldn’t be too surprising, Aaron Larkin had been free safety for the Chargers for most of his career in the seventies. In the seventies, he had not been bald.
“My God, Knighthorse, you are a big boy,” he said, pumping my hand.
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”
He laughed and gestured for me to sit. He moved behind his black lacquer desk and took a seat. Larkin leaned forward eagerly and laced his fingers together before him. His fingers were thick and gnarled and some seemed particularly crooked, not too surprising after a full career in football. Between high school, college and the pros, fingers were bound to get broken.
“We are very excited to hear from you,” Aaron Larkin began.
“Excitement is good. I am happy to be here.”
“Well, we had given up on you. Such a tragedy about your leg. But my God you have kept yourself fit. And we need someone like you badly. Hell, who doesn’t need a fullback nowadays?”
“Outside of football, few people.”
He laughed. “We want to give you a private workout in two weeks. If we like what we see we’ll invite you to training camp. We are honored that you’re here, Knighthorse. My God you were an unholy terror on the playing field. Your services could be very, very valuable to us. So how is the leg?” he asked, and his voice was filled with genuine concern, and for that I liked the guy immensely.
“It has healed completely.” I lied. It hurt like a motherfucker.
“An utter miracle. I watched you coming down the hall. There’s no limp to speak of.”
The hallways had been empty. He must have been watching me on some closed circuit TV. A sort of high tech surveillance to monitor my gait.
“Well, I’m a hell of a specimen.”
“Around here, they all are.”
We set a date for my mini-workout, and when I left his office, I waved to the little camera situated in the upper corner of the hallway.
56.
“Where the hell is he?” asked Sanchez.
I shrugged.
“Did you just shrug?” he asked. “Because it’s too dark to tell. I mean there’s a hundred reasons why I’m one of the best homicide detectives in LAPD, but seeing in the dark ain’t one of them.”
“Neither is using proper English.”
“Hell you’re lucky I’m using any English at all, being of Latino descent, and this being Southern California.”
“This is America, you know.”
“Unfortunately there ain’t no such thing as speaking American.”
“Too bad.”
“And last time I checked we ain’t in England, so fuck English.”
We were waiting outside of Huntington High in my Mustang. It was past 7:00 p.m., and Bryan Dawson, or Pencil Dick, was still in his office. We had been waiting here for the past four hours. Students were long gone, including most of the faculty. We had watched the sun set over the Pacific.
“I’m hungry,” said Sanchez.
“There’s a Wendy’s around the corner. Why don’t you go get us something to eat.”
“Why don’t you give me the fucking money to go get us something to eat.”
“When was the last time you paid for anything?” I asked.
“The last time you helped me solve a case.”
I gave him the cash. Sanchez left, and the mere thought of a burger and fries made my stomach start to growl. We had been following Pencil Dick for four straight days. So far there was no evidence of any extracurricular activities on the part of the band director, other than his fondness for frozen yogurt.
Sanchez came back with a massive grease-stained bag of food. We ate silently and quickly, drinking from two plastic buckets that were passed off as jumbo drinks. And when we were finished, when the eating noises finally stopped altogether, when the debris had been collected back into the bags, I saw a familiar sight.
Coming down through a side hall, turning into the faculty parking lot, was a handsome man with dark hair. He was carrying a briefcase, and looked far too important to be just a band director. Or at least that was the impression he presented. He got into a red Jetta.
“Let’s roll,” I said.
57.
Bryan Dawson lived in a condo about a mile from the beach. We were currently heading in the opposite direction.
“He’s not heading home,” said Sanchez.
“Astute,” I said.
I was three cars behind the Huntington band director, sometimes drifting back to four or five. To date, he had made no indication that he knew he was being followed.
“You’re following too close.”
“No, I’m not.”
“He’s going to make us.”
“He’s not going to make us,” I said. “And I’m the one who taught you how to tail.”
“But I’m the one who got all the tail.”
“So you say.”
We were heading deeper into Huntington Beach. In fact, we were just a few blocks from my office.
“Know someone works around here,” said Sanchez. “Thinks he’s a detective.”
The Jetta suddenly turned into an empty bank parking lot. I pulled to the side of the road and killed the headlights, giving us a good view of Pencil Dick. From the shadows, a lithe figured stepped away from the building and into Dawson’s car. The Jetta swung around, exited the parking lot and was soon heading back our way. Sanchez and I both ducked.