Big Tom returns, all business now. “Settle in and order some lunch. We’re pulling together the people we spoke to about John. We’ll try to have something for you first thing tomorrow. So use your time wisely and rest up. Should have some news for ya by this afternoon.”
John mumbles something in the affirmative and waves him out.
We’re all extremely weary and drained, but John looks like he is about to collapse. The thought of having contracts out on our lives is traumatic and, to me, so completely unrealistic I cannot wrap my mind around the thought. The knowledge of how well we are being protected offers some solace, but nothing is appealing except to get this ordeal over with.
Again, Sharon finds her spot immediately on the ledge by the window while I try to find a television show to numb my mind. John chugs down some more Scotch, the bottle already waiting in the room. He orders steak for us even though the thought of food turns our stomachs. Then he orders a side of cognac and Cuban cigars for himself.
Word is passed along to us that John is to talk to the bigwigs in the morning. A shrouded group of influential people will gather in the formal sunken living room at the center of the penthouse suite and record all the sordid details of John’s criminal information. This is really going to happen. I am convinced. He has given the police information through Big Tom for years, and Tom is someone who can help John do this… and do it right.
The knock on the door cracks earlier than we want it to. It is time. John is fidgety and busies himself with insignificant things, running in and out of the bathroom, stalling for time.
“Come on, John.” Lange stands at the door, his jacket off, the pistol in his shoulder holster on the outside of his dress shirt exposed.
“Okay. Well, this is it.” John bends down for a kiss from Sharon and me. “Wish me luck!”
Sharon and I make small talk about the hotel. “This place was built in the early 1920s. Lots of celebrities stayed here… politicians, dignitaries…” Sharon recites a part of Los Angeles history, a calming exercise for her. I head over to the television and flip through the channels again. News of the murders airs intermittently, and when it seems we can’t escape the headlines, we turn the television off.
At lunch John returns with few words and a troubled expression etched on his brow.
“See them?” As the door swings open for John to leave, we catch a glimpse of the men sitting on the couch. “That’s John Van de Kamp, the district attorney,” she whispers, raising her eyebrows to add severity. The level of John’s confession rises to the highest ranks.
The late afternoon sun streaks through the fancy curtains, casting a blinding glare of abstract lines against the walls. John walks in looking thoroughly dejected, Tom Lange close at his heels.
“Well, that’s it!” Lange announces angrily.
“That’s it? Are we leaving?” I ask, confused.
Sharon’s head shoots toward the detective.
“No, I mean pack it up. You’re going home in the morning.”
“Home. Okay.” At first I assume he is speaking about a new undercover home, but by John’s slumped shoulders and averted gaze, I surmise that there is something very wrong.
“Johnny here isn’t going to give us what we came for, so we’re cutting him loose. Let him take his chances on the outside. Gotta couple hours to change your mind, Johnny. You know where we’ll be.” Lange leaves the room.
Does this mean they could kill us on the streets?
Sharon and I are incredulous, shocked, and speechless. John avoids my question about whether we’re leaving. Keeping his distance from me and Sharon, he pops another Valium and crawls under the covers. “I gave them what they wanted. Fuck ‘em.” He puts his hand over his face to block us out, turns his back, and completely withdraws from any more questions—especially from ours.
Tom Lange drives Sharon and me to Glendale the morning of July 11. John has left to go through an official release process and to pick up the dogs boarded at the kennel. Being out of protective custody with nothing resolved makes me extremely uneasy. Sharon is ever silent, her gaze remaining focused out the back window, and I can only guess that she is scared too.
“What happened?” I ask.
“John didn’t give us what he promised, so the deal is off.” Irritation rings in his voice.
“Off? But what about the contracts out on us? We’ll be killed!”
“I’m sorry. We’ll try to protect you as best we can, but we really can’t help that much.”
“But John gave you the information you wanted,” I cry.
“No. He fed us bullshit! We think he’s stalling, protecting Eddie Nash… and wasting all of our time. Sorry.” With nothing more said, Detective Tom Lange drops us off and wishes us good luck.
Drapes drawn, doors locked, we lie low, tiptoeing around corners and startled at every shadow. Sharon, John, and I barely speak to one another. Sharon hides out in the small corner of the kitchen, engaged in mind-numbing tasks. Deep in thought, she does the dishes in long, slow, soapy strokes.
John confronts her briefly by the kitchen sink and they exchange short, heavy whispers. Sharon slips past John. With an uncomfortable, anguished expression twisting her normally statuelike dark features, she grabs her purse and leaves for a “quick errand.”
The once impounded Malibu is parked next to the cottage camouflaged beneath the shadow of the giant magnolia tree. I try to calm the excitement of the dogs, the dancing of their toenails like falling rain on a tin roof, hollow and depressed. Sharon returns balancing her heavy purse and plain brown paper grocery bags. Frantically John unpacks them, lining up several spray paint cans in a long row on the varnished counter.
“Here. Come on.” He hands me a can of spray paint and motions for me to follow. Outside he crouches down on the ground next to the Malibu and pulls me down with him, spraying sloppy streaks of gray primer over the weathered dark blue sides. “Hurry.” John nudges my arm. He pops off the cap of rust red paint and sprays wild strokes on the black textured vinyl top, leaving blatant, conspicuous streaks and drips.
It looks like dried blood, I think. It’s a bad sign. “What are we doing, John?”
“We gotta get out of here… and fast. Once they find out I’m out of jail, they’ll be looking for us. There are contracts out on us. Get it? Death contracts. So we gotta get out of this state and hide somewhere. Sorry, baby.” He squeezes my hand. “Fucking cops.”
I know we are going on the run now, not from the police, but from something far worse—evil, looking for us—and we need to run for our lives.
The spray paint cans empty fast. We have covered most of the Chevy’s original color. John holds my hand and dashes into the house, keeping close to the bushes and trees. “Pack your things. Only what you need.”
Sharon is already in the bedroom rolling John’s clothes into tight, neat bundles in plastic garbage bags.
“Sharon, come on,” he calls. “We need to get this done.”
Like many times in their relationship, it seems Sharon simply obeys John’s barking orders, but she already knows what this means. I watch her actions to determine what will happen next. She removes an old, white tablecloth from a kitchen drawer and drapes it around John’s shoulders. With scissors that appear out of nowhere, she snips at his shaggy curls, hacking and trimming a hair’s breadth from his scalp. I think of her nurse’s training, all the times she cleaned a wound or wrapped a bandage, and I picture her in an operating room performing surgery.