“Four bodies were found bludgeoned to death on Wonderland Avenue this morning in the Hollywood Hills with one survivor. Stay tuned for news at five.”
My head snaps up, and I gasp. That house! That street! I know that place. That’s John’s connection! Oh no. God! I hold my breath for ten full minutes, it seems, afraid to exhale. Every ounce of my being knows undoubtedly: This is bad. The little things are adding up in my head: John’s return with different clothes, his missing briefcase, the red marks on his arms and neck, and most especially the lifeless way he acts—then the dreams. I start to get scared that something has gone very wrong with the sale of the coke. I swallow hard. It is five o’clock.
On the news, police are gathered outside of the house on Wonderland Avenue overseeing the removal of mummy sheet-clad bodies from the three-story home and loading them into a coroner’s van. A reporter, somber outside with a microphone in hand, recounts the gory details asking for anyone with any information to call the police.
A slight movement behind me makes me jump. John is up. Leaning against the faux wood headboard, he lights a cigarette.
“John. Look! It’s that house! They found dead bodies at that house! The one you go to all the time!”
John doesn’t say a thing but keeps an icy stare straight ahead. I fix my own disbelieving gaze on the headlines again.
“John? Isn’t that the place?”
“Shhh!” He sits up closer to listen.
“Neighbors reported hearing noises in the early hours this morning, July first, but dismissed them as primal screams common to the residents of 8763 Wonderland Avenue. Reportedly, there is one survivor in critical condition.”
Oh God! I’ve been in front of that house. Many times… I sat right there. I note the spot where the news crew is parked. This is really bad.
At the end of the broadcast, John hops up and spins through the channels, until he finds another station headlining the murders. He watches, glued intently to the screen.
“John? You had a dream,” I tell him, fighting the sinking feeling in my gut.
“Huh? What?”
“A dream. A nightmare. When you were sleeping.”
His face drains pale, and his eyes bulge like a hungry bulldog’s.
“You were screaming, ‘Blood! Blood! So much blood!’” I imitate the pitch of his voice.
He jumps in quickly, “Oh, I, uh, the trunk… the trunk of the car. I was lifting the trunk and hit my nose. Gave myself a nosebleed.” His story babbles out fast and awkward. It is too much information, a blatant lie. The hair on my skin rises, warning me to not press the issue… about anything. John lights one cigarette after the other; the blue haze floats heavy and thick on the filtered sunlight. He checks every window and door, becoming more paranoid and twitchy as news channel after news channel blasts the “four on the floor” murders, the “Wonderland killings.”
For a few days, we lie low. John’s demeanor leaves no room for discussion. The cocaine is gone. The money is gone. I don’t want to know what else he knows. If I don’t ask, it won’t be real. I try to bend reality, but the truth is biting at our heels, relentless, like a rabid Rottweiler. Too many questions creep their way into my thoughts. Big questions like Who did this? and Are they coming for us? I wonder also if John had anything to do with it. My stomach curls and skin crawls as I remember John’s ranting about the Wonderland gang: “I hate those motherfuckers in there. I’ve met some shitheads in my life, but those assholes… they’re fucking scum.”
It is too late to admonish myself for coming back. I am here, and there’s nothing I can do to change that, but I have no hope or clue as to what to do next. I wait for John’s backup plan, his ace in the hole; I wait to hear from him that things aren’t that bad—but the words never come.
John is empty inside, struggling to regroup, and has nothing comforting to say.
It is obvious to me that we’ll have to do something soon, but not just yet. I want to leave—run from LA anyway, like we planned. “We can find jobs in another state, John. We don’t need money yet. Let’s just go.”
But he wants to keep his ear to the ground instead. He needs to find out how deep this rabbit hole goes. “We can’t. They’ll find us.” John rips the skin off the side of his fingernail.
“Who are they, John?”
“Shhh. Stop!” The horror in his eyes is unmistakable, and his face contorts as if to say, You know damn well who. Then I realize he has to stay loyal to Eddie.
We eat fast food from the local joints, paying with the small amount of cash John left me before the murders. He dashes outside, incognito, his shirt wrapped around his head, dark glasses covering his eyes, ducking behind cars and nasty brown Dumpsters, while I guard the door.
The room stays dark; our only light, the changing greenish glow from the television, on constantly those few days without sound. We turn the volume up to be barely audible when flashes of the “four on the floor” air on the hour, and we become more attentive to the bumps and bangs on the streets outside.
On the afternoon of July fourth, it is muggy and hot and we sit naked on the bed in the harsh glare of the silent screen on the wall. Some time has gone by, and we are more relaxed, the strained edge of tension having eased a bit with the passing days. Thor snuggles warmly between John’s legs beneath the sheets, while I face him, brushing off an emery board to do his nails. We wait for the ten o’clock news to come on. My wet hair hangs loosely down my back; it’s the only way I can cool myself in this stifling summer heat. John’s eyes are glued to the soundless television. Our senses are alert to every detail of our surroundings. There is not a sound, except the steady shhicckk, shhicckk, shhicckk of the rough file against John’s nails.
BLAM! An explosion rocks our room.
“A shot!” I can feel my skin split and my ears crack. I leap full force into John’s lap and grab at his chest. “We’re dead!” My eyes squeeze shut, my breath immobile, as I wait for a bullet to penetrate my flesh.
“Freeze!”
Clutching to John’s slippery skin, I squint and sneak a quick look. In the place where our door once stood several bulletproof-vested police officers are poised and aiming their nine millimeters at our heads.
“We mean it, Johnny! Don’t move! You either, young lady! Dawn, is it? Don’t move. Both of you or… we’ll shoot!”
BOOM… BOOM… BOOM… BOOM… BOOM! The shots are like thunder ripping through my head. All sound disappears except the steady, terrified pounding of my heart.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nothing up His Sleeve
The interrogation room in the downtown Los Angeles Police Department is a small, dirty-beige, cement block square with a bare wooden table and a few chairs in the center. A two-way mirror runs the length of the wall next to the entrance, reminding me that I am being watched.
Wearing a pair of Levi’s jeans and one of John’s oversized shirts, I shiver from the cool air-conditioning and the ripples of diminishing adrenaline exiting my system. My hands are trembling, folded on the table, as I wait for someone to come in and book me into jail. My thoughts surge at me, relentless, and I can’t escape the exploding flashbacks of our arrest.