Blurred faces, guns, and uniforms draped with bulletproof vests race toward us from either side of the bed. There is chaos, confusion—our motel room door is shattered, flattened in the middle of the carpet, the frame a wooden, splintered mess. Naked and frozen with fear, John and I are shuffled around puppetlike as the dozen or so officers carefully and methodically separate us.
They take John into the bathroom first to search and dress him. “Do you have anything on you you’d like to tell us about? Drugs, weapons—anything?”
“No, uh, no. Nothing,” he tells them, his arms in the air. He is nervously polite, trying to control his jerky body movements.
John came back from the big run empty-handed—not even a crumb—except for the Valium. I think he won’t have anything on him, but I wonder if he saw Sharon before he came back to the motel somehow.
Two female officers step up to surround me. “Can you step into the bathroom with us, ma’am? We need to search you.”
They guide me into the bathroom. One of the officers brushes her hand under my hair and between my legs, gives the all clear, and hands me my clothes.
“My dog? Where’s my Chihuahua, Thor? He’s scared. Let me get him. Please.”
A small cage appears from another officer at the door. “Call him out, ma’am. Don’t touch him; just call him out.”
Thor is under the bed, frightened, shaking fiercely, his face appealing to me for help. But I’m not allowed to comfort him, only to call to him for a uniformed stranger to put him in a cage.
Amidst a bustling crowd of plainclothes and uniformed detectives and officers, John is taken out in handcuffs. He stalls for a moment at the door, and we lock eyes. For that split second, he looks as if he wants to cry. I do. What did you do, John? What did you do?
Like a sad-faced clown on a velvet background, John scrunches up his face anxiously. “I love you,” he mouths as he is escorted out in the baking afternoon heat to a waiting police car. Thor and I follow separately.
Left alone in the small, sterile room for hours, I hear the half-glass, half-metal door finally open with a heavy creak-thud that echoes in the tiny space. Two plainclothes men step up, pull out a chair, and take a seat at the opposite side of the table.
“Hello, Dawn.” The first one introduces himself. He is of average height, has a round face, a brown receding hairline, and a grim expression. “I’m Tom. Tom Lange… and this is my associate Frank Tomlinson.” There’s a pause. “Do you know why we’re here?” He glares at me, a serious, dark, mud-eyed stare.
“No.” My gut aches. Stabbing pains like a thousand tiny knives pierce through my psyche. So many images race through my brain, but I know. I know this is about the people at Wonderland. Still, I stay quiet.
“This is very serious, Dawn. Very, very serious.” He pauses again.
I nod.
“You’re John’s girlfriend, right? How long have you two been together?”
“Um… five years.”
He clears his throat and raises an eyebrow. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
Frank Tomlinson, a younger, fuller-haired version of Lange, shakes his head.
“Well… maybe we can ask you a few questions. Do you mind looking at some photos also?”
“Sure.”
Detectives Lange and Tomlinson are stone-faced, cold, seasoned interrogators. They watch me—my face, my movements—for any reaction or clue that can give them a lead. They divulge nothing, not letting on why I am being held, and lay down a random assortment of pictures. Lange flips through the stack. They are people I don’t recognize in front of the house on Wonderland—a place I do recognize. Then there is a picture of Eddie Nash, and I feel sick.
“Do any of these people look familiar?”
“No,” I lie, trying to shake my head believably.
“Where have you been this last week?”
The brick of cocaine in John’s briefcase, Sally’s house, and the motel before John left for his big deal scorch their way into my memory. Oh God, they want me to rat John out. I can’t say anything.
“In the motel.” My words are small, insignificant.
“With John?”
“Yes.”
“Was John with you the whole time?”
“Well, uh, mostly. He went out to get food and stuff.” I try to skirt the truth.
“Do you know why you’re here, Dawn?” Lange slams his palms down on the desk.
“No.”
“Murder!”
Hot sweat pushes its way through the cold pores of my skin; I swallow hard and look up at Tom Lange, pleading. “Murder? I…”
“John’s in big trouble this time. He’s not going to get out of this one that easy!”
“Who—?”
Detective Lange cuts me off. “All right, Dawn. That’s all we got for you for now.”
“John?”
“Oh, ha, Johnny boy? He’s not going anywhere. Naw, naw, naw. He’s gonna be around for a long time.” They push the wooden chairs back under the table, a long scraping noise that runs through my spine.
I bite my tongue. In my mind I remember the contorted look and fear in John’s eyes as he was being hauled off. I know he is scared. “My dog, Thor… Is he okay?”
“Ha! Yeah. He’s all right. Cute little fellow—knows just whose locker to piss on too.” Detective Tomlinson chuckles. During his short stay, Thor has become a mini-celebrity with the officers at the station. I try to smile. “Do you have anywhere to go?”
“No. Well… only one place… maybe… to Sharon’s.”
“Sharon Holmes’?” He thinks for a moment. “Yeah. John mentioned that. Let’s see if we can get you and your dog a ride, then.”
A uniformed officer brings Thor into the interrogation room. Panting for breath and scratching to get out of the cage, he wags his tail and frantically spins in circles when he sees me.
“All right. You’re free to go. We can give you a ride, if you like.” Detective Tomlinson motions for me to follow him.
Thor compulsively licks my arm and makes whiny grunting noises. I stroke his trembling, now-graying brown coat, tuck him under my oversized shirt, and exhale a heavy sigh. “It’s been a long time. I hope Sharon lets us in, boy,” I whisper into his furry little ear.
Harsh sunlight spills into the patrol car on the drive to Glendale the day after the Fourth of July. There were no fireworks or celebration at the precinct. In fact, there has been no celebration of anything for me in a long time. Tomlinson and the uniformed officer make some kind of political joke that I don’t understand, but I’m only drifting in and out of their conversation anyway. I’m feeling the quiet familiar streets of my past welcome me back. It’s Sunday. Sharon will be home.
We pull up to the cottages, as I’ve done a thousand times before, and I steel myself. Tomlinson watches from the sidewalk as I hesitantly approach the porch of Sharon’s now-peeling, faded house, and I knock. What if she doesn’t answer like that night with the hitchhiker? For a split second, that horrible evening sends a haunting shiver through my soul.
The dogs are barking furiously. Thor wiggles wildly in my arms and yips. “All right! All right!” Sharon’s lilting voice tries to calm them. Her dark gaze peeks quickly through the lace curtains, piercing me straight in the eye like a brown bullet, then disappears. Uncertain as to what she might do, I start to pray, imagining her disapproving, reluctant expression behind the door. The dead bolt clicks, and the knob turns.