Fatally Haunted

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Thavary sat in an unmarked car across the street from Narith Nam’s house. The altars were filled with fresh food. The sprinklers swished, the lawn sparkled. She watched Narith walk out with Penleu and accompany him to the corner, standing there until the school bus arrived and Penleu got on it.

  She got out of the car. They’d given her a couple days off, so she wore jeans, a T-shirt, a leather jacket.

  Narith Nam’s face lit up. “Thavary, how wonderful to see you. Please, please come in.”

  Thavary answered him in English. “I only have a moment.”

  “I saw the news,” Narith switched to English. “You are a hero. You saved your barang-mother.”

  “Not me. The firefighters. Yes, she was lucky. But the rec center is very damaged. It will be shut down for months. Maybe even permanently.”

  “Do they know what caused the fire?”

  Thavary thought of Penleu, screaming joyously in the surf. Of the way Narith had kissed her. The healing he’d offered.

  “Arson. Almost killed my moms.” In spite of her resolve, her voice cracked.

  “Please, Thavary, come in, have tea.” There it was, that soft look in his eyes she’d fallen in love with.

  Thavary didn’t move. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Thavary.” He wrapped his arms around her, held her to him. “Shhh. Shhh. Everything is okay. I’m here.”

  Thavary put her arms around him, rested her head on his chest for a moment. She couldn’t feel a holster, but a man like Narith Nam wouldn’t necessarily need a weapon. She ducked out of his embrace. “I know who you really are.” She watched his face carefully, some part of her still hoping she was wrong. “I know you are the new head of the Jewel Orchid gang. Your men started the fire.”

  Narith’s face went completely still, the smile gone, as if it had never been.

  Thavary watched his smile fade. Her skin tightened, as if something were crawling on her, so tight her ribs felt squeezed. Her face and ears went hot, remembering how she’d kissed those lips.

  Narith looked around. Checking to see if she was alone. “You don’t have proof, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “The proof burnt up in the fire. But I know it, and that’s enough.”

  “Thavary.” He reached for her.

  Thavary’s hand moved to her holster. “Touch me and I will use this.”

  “I see.” Narith lowered his hands, but didn’t step back. “So, you think you know me.”

  “I thought I knew you. But you were just using me. You needed someone on the inside.”

  Now his expression did change. The soft look in his eyes, a look she had only seen on his face when he looked at Penleu and at her, returned. “That was my plan, at first. I heard about this new cop, the first Khmai cop on the force. I thought it would be easy.”

  He stopped and looked around, then looked back at her. “But then I saw you. You are so beautiful. I felt—” he put his hand on his chest. “We are the same, Thavary. You and I. We know what the world is really like. We’re both warriors. We understand each other. That’s rare.”

  “You’re initiating your own son. I don’t understand that.”

  “That’s because you grew up with barangs. This is our world. Come with me, Thavary. Join us. Open your heart to me, the way I opened mine to you.”

  “Disband the gang.”

  If she’d had any hope, any hope at all, it dissipated entirely when she saw his face return to its stony look.

  “Too late for that now. I would be a dead man. Penleu too.”

  For a moment, the only sound was the swish-swish-swish of the sprinklers. Narith kept his eyes on her face, studying her, as if he were trying to memorize every detail.

  “Penleu.” Thavary said.

  “What?”

  “If you really love him, keep him out of the gang.”

  Now Narith did step back. “He’s my only son. I did all this for him.”

  Thavary stepped forward. “This is what I’ll do for him. I’m going to bring you down. I’m going to bring you down and I’m going to get Penleu away from you and he’ll be raised by barangs. Like me.”

  “You were raised by barangs. But you’re Khmer. Don’t forget.”

  Thavary took a last look at the face she’d thought would save her from her demons. “Yes. I’m Khmer. I’m American. And I’m a cop.”

  She turned away from him and walked back to her car.

  Back to TOC

  Coincidence

  Mark Hague

  Those few seconds are seared on my eyeballs, in my memory. The lone white kid hitting the black one. At the last minute, pushing him off the platform right onto the rails. My reflexes were automatic, I even pressed my left foot down on the non-existent brake pedal and cranked the hand brake until I thought it would break off. But a train is tons of steel and they don’t stop on a dime.

  Was there any way I could have stopped the train in time? Coming into the 103rd Street/Watts Towers station, I’d done everything by the book, had even been going slower than normal. Especially after seeing the skirmish on the platform.

  I was there for hours. It was all a blur, calling the dispatcher and watching as another train arrived to take passengers on to their destination. What wasn’t a blur was the fight and the boy sailing off the edge of the platform. I can still see the body bag on the gurney where they’d stowed the pieces. I went over it again and again with the police detective, described the scuffle, the pushing. I could even describe the killer down to the type of sneakers he was wearing as he nonchalantly walked down away the ramp with no one trying to stop him. I could even describe his jazzy orange sneakers (the latest style I think) and the red T-shirt he wore, with its band logo, The Fetid Swamp.

  I asked for a leave of absence, drank my way through the following weekend, the following week, trying to forget what I’d seen, trying to stop the play-by-play before my eyes for days, weeks, months afterwards.

  I sought out a therapist. “How did that make you feel?” he asked. How the hell was it supposed to make me feel? My train ran over a kid, severed his head, his legs. How do you deal with that? How do you go back to living normally, like it had never happened? How do you forget?

  My description was accurate—I can still see every excruciating detail, every movement, every jab and punch and push in those last seconds before the kid’s body went over the edge. The assailant—I was later able to learn his name—Peter Miller, what a perfectly ordinary name—and the victim’s—Keanu Jacobs. I sat through the trial—I was a witness in the Compton Courthouse. And I pointed at Peter Miller when asked to identify the assailant—just as I had at the Compton Police Department when given the books of photos to look through. Did I solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Yeah, fuck yeah, I did. But the Miller kid’s father had hired a damned good attorney. “Is there any doubt that you saw what you think you saw?” No, no there wasn’t. I knew what I saw. But his lawyer pointed out that my eyesight had changed since my last prescription and since I hadn’t been back to an optometrist, perhaps I hadn’t seen what I thought I saw. Bullshit. I could see perfectly well thank you, and I swore on the stand to tell the truth. I remember the kid smirking at me while I sat in the witness stand, trying to figure out how to answer the prosecutor and the attorney. And I saw the kid point his two fingers from his eyes to me with a glare of hatred and rage.

  “So, you can’t be sure that you actually saw the defendant on the platform, right?” his lawyer asked me, after establishing that I hadn’t gotten new eyeglasses yet. He smiled at the jury and quirked his eyebrow. They smiled.

  “Yes, I know what I saw. I saw the defendant push the other kid onto the tracks. It was clear as day!” I shouted. The damned lawyer was making me look like a fool about the glasses thing. Even if my eyesight had changed, I could see well enough.

  “Just answer the question,” the judge admonished. I tried to calm d
own, but the lawyer had me rattled. He was good, I have to give him that.

  The kid walked. Any other witnesses had scattered. I was the only one who had come forward to tell what I’d seen. It wasn’t good enough. He walked.

  “It’s not your fault,” my therapist told me over and over. And, yeah, intellectually, I knew it wasn’t. I hadn’t been in that fight, hadn’t pushed the Jacobs kid off the platform, and there was no way I could have stopped the train. But try telling yourself that at three in the fucking morning, lying there sweating and remembering seeing the kid fall off the platform and try to forget the sound of bones splintering, crushed by tons of steel. Okay, okay, I probably didn’t actually hear it over the squeal of the brakes, but that became part of my memory, even so.

  After the trial, the phone calls started. I’d answer and there was only silence. Once I heard the whisper, “I’ll get you.” And that was the message scrawled on the front of my apartment in red paint. I moved and changed my phone number twice.

  I couldn’t go back to work for months. He’d fall off the platform fifty times a night and I would cry out, sobbing uncontrollably. Yes, I knew it wasn’t my fault, knew that I couldn’t have stopped the train. But what if—what if I could have? Could I have reacted sooner? If only I hadn’t been working overtime because someone had called in sick. No, no, I knew it wasn’t my fault. Knew I’d done everything I could have. But there was still that niggling doubt, that wondering in the corner of my mind at three o’clock in the fucking morning.

  The doubt grew in the dark recesses. I even thought of killing myself. I wanted an end to reliving that scene day in and day out. And knew that no matter how long I lived I’d never forget what had happened, see that kid falling. Over and over, again and again.

  But I didn’t kill myself. Obviously. Yeah, okay, I should have quit, gotten another job. I didn’t quit, but I did go out on interviews for other jobs, as a guard, a security officer, clerking in a 7-Eleven. When my medical leave ran out, I went back, but I found myself surveilling each platform at each station more carefully, and jumping at any untoward movement, ready to apply the brakes, breaking out into a cold sweat, even when everything was calm, normal.

  By three months later, I was finally able to relax. I’d only encountered minor and routine problems, and no longer jumped at sudden movements. No longer broke out in icy perspiration when pulling into a station. Yes, whenever I closed my eyes I saw that scene play out, but it began to fade a little. I tried to forget; alcohol and meds didn’t help much. That little fucker’s face still smirked in my mind and the poor kid who died, I still saw his severed head when I’d run out of the cab to see if he could still be alive, knowing that was impossible.

  I’d never drunk so much before, maybe a few beers sometimes, but now I was drinking every damned night, trying to blot out the memory, trying to forget. I knew I was drinking too much. I was afraid that I’d relive those moments forever. I never allowed the alcohol to affect my work, though, always made sure that I was completely sober when I went to work. I knew I needed to be alert, at least when I was in the cab.

  Then, nearly a year later, I was back on that old schedule and I was doing all right. I mean, yeah, I couldn’t forget, not entirely, but I was trying. One afternoon I was pulling into Firestone Station contemplating being off after two more runs, being able to go home, to another nightmare-wracked night. I was looking ahead obsessively, like always, and saw it again.

  On the platform, an arm swung forward, a punch landed. There were several people fighting now. Pushing and punching. Black, white. I automatically pushed on the hand lever to slow the train, even though it wasn’t time yet and we hadn’t come close enough to the station. I felt the train jerk behind me then slow down incrementally. Hoping no one had been injured, thrown off-balance, I pushed harder on the hand brake.

  And just like before, a body catapulted off the platform and lay on the tracks.

  This kid was lying there just as Jacobs had, looking up. I couldn’t believe it. Orange shoes, red T-shirt. The same band. It couldn’t be Peter Miller, could it? I blinked. Again. It was him. He was even dressed the same as in my memory. At least this time I could stop the train in time. I—I wasn’t a judge, a jury, an executioner. I was only a train engineer.

  I could still stop in time…

  Back to TOC

  Darkness Keeps Chasing

  Peter Sexton

  Laswell heard the distant hiss of rubber gliding over slick pavement as a lone car passed overhead along the Olympic Boulevard bridge in the wet darkness of the rainy, winter night. The instructions had been clear: come alone or the girl dies.

  At 3 a.m., there wasn’t much traffic on the streets above nor another soul to be found down here in the belly of the Los Angeles River. Ditching his back-up hadn’t been difficult, though there would no doubt be hell to pay tomorrow.

  So be it.

  This was his daughter.

  Fuck procedure!

  Detective Bill Laswell scanned the area carefully but found no vehicles or subdued sources of light, nothing to indicate potential danger. Directly beneath the bridge, about a hundred yards in front of him, he saw the silhouette of a girl strapped to a large wooden pallet leaning against the concrete support pillar. From this distance, through the rain and darkness, Laswell couldn’t be certain if was indeed his daughter, Laurie.

  Once again, he scanned the area.

  Darkness.

  Silence.

  Laswell drew his Glock .9mm from the holster on his hip, held it alongside his right leg. He began moving toward the dark image under the bridge.

  The rain gave no sign of showing mercy, and Laswell already carried additional weight from the dampness of his coat.

  Another car crossed on the bridge above.

  Laswell scanned the area again.

  Nothing.

  He crept toward the dark shape.

  Seventy yards…sixty yards…fifty…

  He recognized the girl. Her short, blonde hair. The striped front-tie blouse…a gift from him on her thirteenth birthday.

  Laurie.

  He picked up his pace, fighting the urge to run.

  Calm, level head. Don’t fuck this up.

  Twenty-five yards now.

  He saw the fear in her eyes…the tears, the bruising, the swelling across the left side of her face.

  One last glance around…

  Still alone.

  “It’s all right, honey,” Laswell said, keeping his voice low. “I’m here now. You’re safe.”

  Tears streamed down the girl’s face. Blood crusted beneath her nose and her upper-lip. Fear on his daughter’s face burned a hole deep into his heart. Yes—he would kill the bastard who’d done this to his little girl. Absolutely. When Laswell tracked him down, there would be no badge, there would be no oath to protect and to serve. There would only be justice. Delivered swiftly. With severe purpose and intent.

  Laurie shook her head, fought against the ties that bound her.

  Laswell holstered his weapon and reached for the gag in his daughter’s mouth.

  She shook her head as vigorously as the binds would allow.

  Laswell carefully pulled the dirty white cloth from the girl’s mouth.

  “Daddy!” Laurie cried at once. “I’m so sorry. I—!”

  A sudden explosion of gunfire boomed over her voice.

  Laswell struggled with the girl’s restraints, feverishly tugging at the unyielding plastic zip ties.

  More gunfire.

  But from where?

  The rainfall and the echo down here in the concrete river made pinpointing the location of the shooter next to impossible.

  Laswell pulled his knife from his pocket and cut Laurie free of her restraints.

  She crumpled to the concrete, no doubt her legs exhausted from being forced to stand for who knows how long.

  “Come on, honey.” Laswell lifted her from the ground and carri
ed her behind the support pillar.

  More shots pierced through the dark night.

  Though it seemed as though several minutes had passed, Laswell knew it couldn’t have been more than just a few seconds.

  Now, crouched behind the pillar with his daughter, Detective Bill Laswell returned fire.

  Three weeks later…

  Bill Laswell stood at the edge of the grass, hesitant, solemn, staring at the bouquet of irises and orchids in his right hand. This early in the morning, Rose Hills Memorial Park was quiet, peaceful…More private.

  He tore his eyes away from the flowers he clutched and looked across the lush green park. He took one last drag of his cigarette, dropped it to the asphalt and smashed it beneath his shoe. This short walk had already begun to fill him with anger and self-loathing. Still, he would take this walk no less than twice a week for the rest of his days on Earth.

  He forced himself to look down at the memorial plaque. Tears filled his eyes as he read those words again.

  In Loving Memory, Beloved Daughter, Laurie Laswell, June 5, 2004—April 17, 2018.

  He no longer heard his girl’s screams from that night. Not long ago replaced by those soft, sad words.

  I’m sorry, Daddy.

  He heard her voice every night. Couldn’t blot out that voice even if he wanted to. And every night, he answered. “No, honey. I’m sorry. I failed you.”

  His eyes widened as he glanced at the flowers in his hand, as though he were seeing them for the first time. “I brought your favorite flowers.” He stooped and placed the bouquet into the flower cup alongside the plaque. He wondered what had happened to the flowers he’d brought on his last visit.

  “Honey.” Voice lowered, he looked around to make sure he was alone. “I’m going to find the man who did this.” He paused, then added. “I swear to you, I will.”

  Laswell rose to his feet. He was about to turn and leave when he remembered something else he wanted to tell his daughter.

  “I smoked my last cigarette today. I know I’ve been promising you I’d quit.” More tears welled in his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t do it while you were still here to see.”