She lost her smile. “I need you on this now, like, right now. You read the note, another kid is going to be taken, and those girls are in the hands of a psychopath.”
Why me? Why three kids? What debt could I owe him? What was Jonas thinking? That was the real problem. Jonas had slipped over the tenuous edge of sanity and into his own psychotic world.
A kernel of an idea popped into my head. “If I get lucky, I’ll be there tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marie volunteered at the local clinic three days a week, partly for altruistic reasons, and partly to keep her hand and mind in the medical field. She didn’t want to lose her edge. By now, the kids’ physical wounds had healed. The emotional ones went deeper and were more difficult to overcome. Volunteering as a physician’s assistant still allowed her plenty of time with the children.
I gave the hotel an excuse and the inside bartender relieved me. As usual, I moved through the streets in a circuitous route, doubling back over and over again, but now I was on high alert. Jake Donaldson wasn’t just a pissed-off old drunk. The timing for me to leave town couldn’t be worse. At least no one knew where I lived; I’d made sure to keep it that way.
Except for the main roads, the people on the streets were similar in size and clothing and movement. Anyone from north of the border would be easy to spot. I stopped at a café, ordered a coffee I didn’t want, and watched the street’s ebb and flow. This also gave me a chance to think, to make sure my decision remained sound.
Fifteen minutes later I turned down an alley free from debris and graffiti, something difficult to get used to. I climbed an old jacaranda tree like I always did and peeked over the thick, eight-foot-high wall surrounding the huge house we rented. For $500 a month, the house came with a groundsman, a housekeeper, and three meals a day. With the help of John Mack, we’d brought $250,000 with us, enough to last a good long time.
I reached over the wall and parted some banana leaves. The kids were playing in the backyard. They laughed and giggled and frolicked without a care in the world, the way children were supposed to grow up. The sight made my heart soar. Dad watched from a hammock, asleep. Of course, if you ever asked him, he never slept while charged with the children’s care.
I mentally counted, like I always did, just to be sure. Eight of them: Rick and Toby Bixler, brothers burned in the failed PCP lab. They would have gone back to the same hazardous and toxic environment had we not intervened. Sonny Taylor, the cute, hungry little kid who ate his mother’s meth and then, after the judge gave him back, his mother locked him in a closet. What chance did he have? Marvin Kelso, his mom’s boyfriend the molester-I couldn’t even think about that horrible scenario. Randy Lugo, with five broken bones; how long before it would have been his neck? Wally Kim’s mother died a prostitute wedded to the glass pipe. Tommy Bascombe, his mother was a speed freak and took Tommy to the most dangerous parts of LA to score dope. She had even traded him off for a while, but always got him back in time for social services to do their home inspection. She wasn’t going to miss out on her welfare check. And Alonzo, my grandson. All present, I breathed easier.
Alonzo and Albert had been the catalyst that started my rapid descent into lawlessness. Three years ago, my son-in-law killed little Albert, my grandson, Alonzo’s twin. My hatred went so deep I could not, would not, remember the son-in-law’s name.
The justice system gave the son-in-law a pass. I wouldn’t. I went against all I had stood for in law and order, and stepped outside the moral ambiguity of the law. I hunted him down and shot him dead. Went to prison for it, only to come out and find the court had given Alonzo back to the son-in-law’s parents.
The same abusive family that had raised the son in-law to be a murderer.
I watched from the tree a moment longer, jumped down, and went to the front wrought-iron entry. Tomorrow we’d no longer have Wally Kim’s smiling face and bright eyes to warm our souls. I didn’t want to give him up but it was the right thing to do. Wally would be better off with his natural father, to be raised in his country with his culture and traditions.
I went in quietly through the front door. The hacienda stayed cool during the day, with thick walls and wide paver tiles. In the kitchen I kept busy preparing Marie’s favorite dinner, homemade enchiladas à la Bruno. I set the table and lit two candles, and made sangria with fresh fruit submerged and floating on top in a cold ceramic pitcher.
Without any warning, the herd from outside burst into the house with Dad trailing along, their afternoon playtime over. He didn’t look as healthy as when he lived in Compton. In his youth he’d been a strong man, the strongest I ever knew, and kept me safe while growing up in a dangerous neighborhood. He worked forty years as a mail carrier, never missing a single day from being sick. His shoulders were slumped now, his once glistening black hair was snow white, and his brown eyes were occluded by cataracts.
The kids swarmed around my legs. I picked up Alonzo and swung him high. He giggled. I tried not to show favoritism around the other children, but I naturally gravitated to my grandson.
“What’s with the special dinner tonight?” asked Dad. “Did I forget some important anniversary or something?”
“Nope. Can you keep the kids in the game room tonight, feed them dinner in there, and put them down at the usual time?”
“You know I can.” He kept his smile, but the light in his eyes dropped below a twinkle. He gathered the noisy kids with a gentle touch to their backs. “Come on, story time, let’s go, story time.”
Alonzo wiggled to get down. He loved me without reservation. “Bronze Bow, Granpap?” he asked.
“That’s right, we’re reading The Bronze Bow. Come on now.” When he had them all headed in the right direction, he stopped and nodded toward the table and candles. “Is this something I should know about?”
“I really need to talk with Marie about it first. I owe her that much.”
“Whatever it is, Bruno, don’t do it. I’m telling you right now, don’t do it. Nothing’s worth risking what you have here. And I mean nothing. You know that. You can see it. I know you can.” He kept on moving down the hall.
I’d disappointed him. He’d called me Bruno instead of Son. He only did it when he was serious and wanted me to pay close attention to something important he’d said.
I looked up at the ceiling and shook my head. Of course he was right. But what was I supposed to do? What about little Sandy Williams and Elena Cortez?
Their images crept in. Images of them all trussed up, twine biting into their soft flesh, their eyes and mouth taped with duct tape. Anxiety rose in me, my hands and feet fidgeted, and it quickly shifted to anger.
I sat in the flickering candlelight waiting for Marie and wondered: How could Jonas Mabry have devolved into such an animal? Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe Barbara Wicks had it wrong. That option didn’t make sense. Barbara, the consummate professional, wouldn’t make a mistake of that magnitude.
Outside, the wrought-iron gate clanged. Marie was home. The quiet and the calm, soon to be broken when she found out.
The usual sounds reached out to the dining room. Her sandals slipped off, her purse hung up. She padded on small feet down the hall. She was a fiery Puerto Rican woman with green eyes. I held my breath. Every time I saw her, I felt the same all over again. Her beauty, her smile, and simply her presence made any problem dissolve away. I wanted to hug and kiss her.
This time, the problem would not go away.
She entered the dining room. The soft glow from the candles caressed her smile as she took in the scene. Her gaze fell upon mine. She read my expression, the emotion plain on my face. Her smile disappeared. She pulled out a chair and eased down.