“ Look, I have to go. I’ll come by before I leave town.”
“ You’re a policeman now, I hear.”
“ That’s right and if you’ll excuse me,” he said, sliding out of his seat, “right now, I’m trying to figure out a way to put that German son of a bitch away for a long time.”
“ I wish you luck.” She gave him a great bear hug. “If you need anything while you’re here, you call me.”
“ Count on it,” he said and then he left.
He hurried across the street, oblivious to the gray Mercedes still in the parking lot, but even if he’d seen it, he wouldn’t have been able to see Kohler’s hate filled eyes staring at him through the dark tinted glass.
Back in his hotel room, he called the information operator in Orange County and got the number for Hope Hospital. He asked for Patti Hamilton and was put on hold. After a long wait, which he occupied by pacing the room with the phone at his ear, she came on the line.
“ This is Patti Hamilton.” She sounded as pretty as she looked in the hospital.
“ This is Hugh Washington. Do you remember me?” He crossed his fingers.
“ Of course I remember you, Hugh Washington,” she said. “How did you know my name?”
“ Are you still wearing that name tag?”
“ Oh yeah,” she laughed. Then her voice dropped as she changed from light banter to deep concern. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
“ That’s why I called. I saw another of those geckos and was reminded about the one I saw in the hospital and I got to thinking there was something funny about Ron dying like that. He seemed pretty healthy to me.”
“ They didn’t tell you?” He heard her gasp.
“ Tell me what?” His hand tightened on the phone.
“ You’re friend was murdered.”
“ Murdered?” He knew something wasn’t right. But he hadn’t suspected murder.
“ And not just murdered,” she said, her voice cracking. “He was torn apart. Ripped to pieces. I was the one who found him. It was horrible. It was like some big animal tore into him. The walls were covered in blood. It was even on the ceiling. They’re trying to keep it quiet, but I figured you would know. You were his partner.” There was a long silence between them. Then she said, “And you know what else? Just before I went into that room, just before I found him, one of those geckos came running under the door, tearing out of that room like it knew what was inside. It scared the holy bejesus out of me.”
He saw movement across the room, on the ceiling. He looked up and it stopped and sat there, mocking him. A small green gecko, on the ceiling, upside down. Still.
“ Shit,” he whispered into the phone. “I gotta go. There’s one on my ceiling, right above my head.” He hung up the phone leaving her wondering and worrying.
“ Glenna, dear Glenna,” he said, as he made his way toward the door. He felt foolish. They were harmless, but still they were out of place here. He eased the door open and stepped out into the parking lot. He unlocked the Chevy, got in and relocked the door, started it and drove off into the night, hoping that Glenna was okay and that there were no geckos wherever she was.
Chapter Fifteen
Glenna shivered in her sleep. She was cold and she had to go to the bathroom. She hated getting up at night, getting out from under the warm blankets, leaving a friendly dream. When she was a little girl and wanted the light off, she would lay in bed and wish her father into the room. He usually came, but when she had to pee, no amount of wishing in the world could make it go away. She just had to get up and take care of it herself.
She reached for the blanket. She didn’t have to go that bad. She would wait a while longer. She wanted to sink back down to that wonderful place in the sun. She was reliving a vacation in Honolulu with her parents. She loved the beach, the night life, the Hawaiian attitude, but most of all, she loved the hot climate. She shivered again and moved her hand farther down, looking for the covers, but they weren’t there.
She opened her eyes. Just for a peek. She wasn’t in bed. Not safe at home. She was cold. She had to pee. She was in the cemetery.
The dark clouds were gone and the moonlight dancing off the tombstones made them appear ghostly and forbidding. She was laying across a grave, facing a silvery slab. John Thomas Tanaka, Taken by accident on his fifteenth birthday, August 1, 1959, Walking in a Better Place, she read, and her heart went out to him. Fifteen. He hadn’t even started to live. Were you a good boy, John Tanaka? Did your parents call you Johnny? She noticed the fresh flowers and wondered about such devotion after all this time.
She touched her forehead and winced. She was already getting a welt. How long had she been asleep. Not asleep, the thought assaulted her, she had passed out. She turned away from John Tanaka’s tombstone, toward the gap in the fence, expecting to see those glowing yellow eyes, but the slimy lizard thing was gone. She breathed a sigh of relief.
She felt the cool wetness between her legs and she shivered again. She wanted to get up and pee. She wanted a dry pair of pants, but they were in one of the laundry bags on the other side of the fence, behind the garage. No way was she going back through that gap. I’m going to stay right here with you, Johnny Tanaka. Safe in your arms. I’m not moving till Jim Monday comes through that fence. And like when she was a little girl, she wished her dad would come.
He crushed his opponent, a North Vietnamese colonel, with his three hotels on Park Place. The imaginary game was one of the long ones, about three hours, he figured, and still he heard the television set in the other room. Would they never go to sleep?
He was cramped in a tight sitting position, in a dark closet, in the den. The sound of the television filtered through as a steady drone, reminding him of the constant barrage his North Vietnamese captors blared through their loud speakers.
He wasn’t able to escape from that prison, he hadn’t even tried. That was the hardest thing for him to live with, the not trying. He was able to stand up to them. Able to resist their torture. Strong enough not to sign anything. But not brave enough to try and get out. No man was as courageous as they had painted him. He had been afraid. He hadn’t tried to escape, because he was more afraid of what was outside the wire than inside.
Outside was the terrifying war. He started fighting his fear before he even got to Vietnam. Everyday something more to be afraid of. Everyday. Everyday he fought fear and did his job. He was an excellent soldier. Distinguished in battle. Decorated by his superiors. Demanding of himself. First to fight. Last to retreat. Always afraid.
When he was captured and he knew the war was over for him, the fear fled. He was flooded with an immense feeling of relief. His captors never understood that. They expected another whimpering dog. Monday didn’t cry out when tortured, but he didn’t resist either. After awhile, they left him alone. Maybe he could have escaped, but he didn’t try. And here he was all over again, cringing in a kind of prison cell, not trying to escape.
No, he told himself, not again. He was not going to sit and wait. He was going to escape and wipe away the memories of all those nights when he was forced to turn inward. He went deep into his mind and found a can of gas and a book of matches. He poured the gasoline on the Monopoly board, struck a match and imagined the flames. He’d played his last Monopoly game. Glenna was counting on him. He had cowered in the closet long enough.
He stood in the dark and opened the door. The sky had cleared and the moonlight filtering in the window reflected off the glass enclosed photograph on top of the desk. He went to the desk, opened the top drawer and withdrew the forty-five, sticking it between the small of his back and his Levi’s.