Preservation

by Charles Lemoine

  “So, what are we looking for here?” Theresa asked.

  “Honestly, I’m not one hundred percent sure. We need to find anything that’s related to La Brea Woman, specifically. Maybe something that hasn’t been published on the woman or any controversial issues surrounding her at the time the documents were written.”

  Theresa and Mariska combed through the stack of papers. When they heard, the door click open behind them. Mariska turned and saw Peggy standing in the doorway.

  “Can I help you?” Mariska asked.

  “I…hate to tell you, but we will be closing soon,” Peggy said, backing slowly out of the doorway.

  Mariska turned to Theresa. “We should hurry. Anything that looks interesting or useful, take a picture with your phone. We can compile the photographs later.”

  “Good idea. I can even print them out at the museum so we can easily examine them. Enlarge or enhance them as needed.” Theresa pulled out her cell phone and started to snap photographs.

  Every page Mariska turned, there appeared to be information that could prove important. There wasn’t time to really read everything to determine if it was something previously unrecorded or not. She found herself taking pictures of everything. She suspected Theresa was doing the same thing as she too took an unknown number of images. That’s when Mariska turned the page of a handwritten notebook that Ingrid’s father had recorded in 1914. An image that looked almost identical to the picture she’d seen at Ingrid’s home. The picture showed Ingrid’s father, grandfather, and Mr. Page standing together, they were all grinning from ear to ear.

  She turned the page. It was a drawing of the second photograph she’d seen at Ingrid’s. It was of the pit where La Brea Woman had been found. This drawing showed Ingrid’s father standing next to the pit with the remains at the bottom of the pit. The young Native American man stood in the background with an angry expression. She turned the page again. Could this have been what the smeared photograph was depicting? Ingrid’s father stood next to the remains of La Brea Woman. Next to his foot was her skull. But there was something doodled next to it. Squares and a triangle? With a question mark next to them? She took a photograph of all three pages with her phone.

  “Time’s up, ladies,” Peggy said as she barged into the room. “Pack this up. If you need anything else, you’ll have to come back at a later date. And please have a valid ID with you next time.” She gave Mariska a wink and whispered, “Thanks again for your donation.”

  “And thank you for all your help,” Theresa said to Peggy. “We were able to get what we needed.”

  Peggy stood in the doorway as they put all the repository materials back into their proper storage area and left the room. They walked straight for the exit but stopped short of leaving as Peggy had one last statement to make.

  “I don’t know what you ladies are up to, exactly, but if I were you, I’d pick better friends.”

  “Excuse me?” Mariska said. “What are you talking about?”

  “There was a man in here looking for the two of you. I mean, he didn’t ask for you by name, but it was clear you were who he was looking for.”

  “Did he say who he was and why he was looking for us?” Mariska asked as she turned to Theresa. A worried expression began to form on Theresa’s face, and Mariska felt a pit growing in her stomach.

  “Nope. But then again, I didn’t ask him. One thing I’ve learned in my twenty-nine years working in the heart of a big, scary city like Los Angeles, is the fewer specifics you know and the fewer questions you ask…the better.”

  Mariska felt sick. Worried for herself and for Theresa. Was the man now stalking her? How else would he know to find her at the library?

  They said their goodbyes to Peggy and ran back to Theresa’s SUV. Out of breath, scared, and with her imagination racing out of control, they reached the vehicle. Jumping into the front seats, Theresa started it and quickly pulled out of the parking space. Driving a bit too fast for the cramped spaces of the parking garage, Theresa suddenly slammed on her brakes. They lurched to a stop, seatbelts tightening around Mariska in a painful constriction she’d felt the day before.

  “What’s wrong?” Mariska asked.

  “Look,” Theresa said, pointing to the back. “I just noticed. Someone broke out the window.”

  Mariska’s belly tightened, and her heart raced. “Get us out of here, now.”

  Theresa squealed the tires as they reemerged at street level, not slowing to merge into traffic.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mariska waved goodbye to Theresa and watched her leave from the safety of the metal staircase while she pulled away. She turned away and climbed the remaining steps to the top landing. That’s where she froze. The brand new, heavily reinforced metal door, was dented inward around the handle. She looked behind her, hoping Theresa was still within sight, but no luck.

  She reached for the doorknob and squeezed, but didn’t try to turn it. Her heart began to race, and her belly felt queasy. Should she check to see if it was still locked or call someone for help? Indecision plagued her. She looked back toward the street, again. It was dark and quiet, deserted by Los Angels’ standards. There was no one around that would be offering to help her. With every ounce of care in her body, she turned the doorknob. It moved freely. Bending down to look at the lock, she saw that the wall around the door had been damaged. Splintered wood and scrape marks told the tale. Someone had used a crowbar to break the lock and pry the door open.

  Mariska opened her purse and felt around for her cell phone. She could call David, her parents, or even Theresa to come back and go inside with her. No, she couldn’t put the people she cared about in danger, simply because she didn’t want to keep involving the cops. She placed the call to the police.

  “9-1-1, state the nature of your emergency.”

  “I think my apartment’s been broken into,” Mariska said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “You’re inside your apartment, and you heard someone break in? Is that right, ma’am?”

  “No, I’m standing outside. When I got to the door, it was pried open.”

  “What is your name and address, ma’am?”

  “Mariska Stevenson. 5116 and a half Wilshire Boulevard. My apartment’s above the grocery store, Seoul Foods. Please hurry, and let the officers know that they have to access it through the alley behind the store.”

  “The police have been dispatched. They should be there shortly. You should leave immediately. Do you have a safe place to wait for them?” The woman’s voice was trained. This wasn’t her first rodeo.

  Mariska looked around the alley. Not really, she thought. “I can wait behind the dumpster in the alley.”

  No response.

  “Hello?” Mariska said. “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  She looked at the phone. The screen was black. The phone was dead.

  “Fuck.” Mariska threw the phone back into her purse.

  She started down the stairs to wait in the alley when she suddenly stopped. Her artifacts. Could someone have broken into her apartment to steal the last remaining bit of the La Brea Woman and the only possible lead she had to find her remains? Mariska looked back up the staircase. What other choice did she have? Pushing down her natural desire for self-preservation, she took the steps back up, two-by-two.

  Crouching low, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. A few inches at first, and then a few more. The apartment was dark inside. Even popping her head inside, to peer around the corner, she couldn’t see any further than a few feet. The ambient light from the street lamps did little to help since she kept her blinds closed most of the time.

  The idea of losing the last remaining vestiges of her life’s obsession, steeled her resolve as well as her shaky legs. Acknowledging the fact that she was nuts for even thinking about going inside, she knew she had to protect the artifacts. She entered the apartment that suddenly felt foreign to her. She could have walked from room to room with her eyes, closed, b
ut the idea of someone possibly lurking inside made her feel unsure of herself. Unsure of her decision. But she persevered. One foot in front of the other, ever mindful to make herself small, keep to the shadows, and remain silent.

  Mariska crept past the oven when she stopped. Three more feet and she would step onto squeaky floorboards. Behind her on the kitchen counter was a heavy meat tenderizer. She grabbed it and tested how it felt in her hand. She’d smacked a few steaks and chicken breasts with it, but would it be heavy enough to tenderize someone’s skull? It would have to do, for now. She crept forward. Her toe touched the spot on the floor she knew would squeak. Not a loud noise, but in this situation, it might as well have been a jet plane landing in her kitchen.

  Squeak.

  Tightening her grip on the weapon, she held it up above her and ran headlong into the apartment. Turning the corner from the kitchen, past the apartment’s bisecting hallway, and into the living room, she ran. Her mother had often encouraged her to stash weapons around the home—just in case. Thank God her mom grew up in Harlem and was as street-wise as they come. Two more feet and…

  Someone collided with her from the side, sending her sprawling across the living room floor. The left half of her body bouncing off the sofa, she rolled with the fall, the weapon flying from her hand. Whoever hit her was like a truck. She hadn’t had a chance. The living room was nearly pitch black, and she couldn’t see where the meat-tenderizer landed. The only visible light came from the digital time display on her cable-box. Looming above her was the intruder. A seemingly inhuman-sized man, bathed in darkness. His immense form slowly moved closer.

  Crab-crawling backward, she dove like an Olympic backstroke swimmer. Her hand sliding under the far side of the sofa where she’d stashed a telescoping metal baton. With no time to think, she extended the length with a quick jerk and swung it at the attacker. He must have seen the glint of LED light on the black metal because he stopped his advance. She swung it again and again, screaming, “Get the fuck away from me.”

  Blinking back sweat and shadows, she saw the shadowy hulk of a man begin to move away from her. His footsteps, heavy and solid against the hardwood floor. A few seconds passed, and she heard the kitchen floor squeak and then the front door. He’d gone. She collapsed back against the floor and breathed hard, and fought back tears.

  After a few moments, the realization kicked in: she was alive, but the artifacts might still have been stolen. A new wave of adrenaline entered her bloodstream, and she found the strength and motivation to get up from the floor. Flipping on the living room lights, the room was bathed in the soft white light of energy efficient bulbs. The sofa cushions were scattered across the floor, the stuffing pulled from them and lay in a myriad of small white piles. The leather recliner was flipped onto its side, table lamps toppled and in various levels of destruction. The Tiffany lamp her mom had given to her for her birthday sat on its side next to the end table. The multicolored glass shade was in pieces, and the cord had been pulled from its base.

  Mariska turned in a quick circle. There was almost nothing in the room that hadn’t been either destroyed or at the very least moved from its original position. Despite the loss of security and things, what she needed was to know about the artifacts. Baton in hand, she stepped over the debris and hurried into her bedroom. Nothing in there had been spared destruction. Her mattress now sat against the far wall, the underside slit open like a gutted animal. The mattress material protruded from the gash like the entrails that had yet to be cut away.

  Her bookcases had been pulled from the walls and now overlapped each other in the middle of the room. Books, knickknacks, and framed pictures had been strewn about the room in a violent attempt to find something in a hurry. Where were her treasures? Sifting through piles of items on the floor, she located the decorative box that held the beads. Mariska reached down and picked it up. The top was missing. She took a closer look and saw that it looked like it’d been torn from the bottom as if the person who removed it didn’t know the trick to opening it. The edges had damage, and the side was dented.

  Mariska looked inside the box; it was empty. She pulled out the small red cloth that lined the bottom and gasped. The small blue bead had been missed. The intruder had either been in too big of a hurry or had been interrupted in his thieving; he missed it. Without a second thought, she shoved the small, blue, cube-shaped bead into her front pocket and started looking for the geode that hid the unidentified tooth. Up against the large front window of the room, the hide-a-key geode sat atop the long short bookcase, untouched. The intruder had definitely been interrupted. The entire room was in shambles, but this one spot. High-stepping over the mess in the room, Mariska reached the geode in two steps.

  Placing the baton on the top of the bookcase, she peeled back the false bottom of the stone hiding place. The woven pouch that held the tooth fell into the palm of her hand with the satisfying heaviness she’d remembered and let out a deep sigh of relief. She removed the tooth from the pouch and brought it up close, to get a better look. She rubbed her fingers along the undamaged length of it. She hadn’t lost it all, but she’d lost so much. What was next? What was left to lose? Tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to roll, but she held her breath and swallowed hard. Fighting the involuntary wracks of her body as the sobs of pain, fear, and frustration threatened to undo her. From childhood, she’d hated to cry. Often preferring to be alone where no one could see her lose that control of emotion, control of herself. She released the breath and kissed the tooth.

  An unexpected thud from the front of her apartment jolted her back into control. This wasn’t yet over, and she would fight to the end. She shoved the pouch and tooth into her pocket and grabbed for the weapon. Securing a tight grip on the handle, she swung it around to charge out of the bedroom.

  “Police. Drop it,” a female voice commanded from the doorway. A bright flashlight shown into her eyes, obscuring her sight. Was this a trick? The memory of calling the police before entering the apartment made a sudden return.

  Mariska’s first instinct was to raise both arms straight over her head. She blinked and squinted as she turned her head away from the incessant bright light.

  “Drop it,” the officer commanded once again.

  Arms stretched high above her head, she released the weapon as she’d been told. It struck the floor next to her foot with a solid thud. The officer holding the flashlight stepped toward her, and as she did, Mariska could see it wasn’t just a flashlight pointed at her.

  The officer held a gun in one hand, the flashlight in the other. The two objects coming together in a show of force in front of the officer.

  “Put your hands behind your head and take a step back,” the officer said. “Now, get on your knees. Keep your hands behind your head.”

  Mariska did as she was told.

  A second officer, one she hadn’t seen, approached from the right. He picked up the baton with a latex-gloved hand and handed it back to whoever was standing in the doorway. The lights in her face continued to obscure her vision.

  Mariska felt a strong hand close around her right wrist, and then the left. Her hands were quickly forced down behind the small of her back. Without a word, the officer clapped a set of cold, metallic handcuffs on her and shoved her face down onto the floor.

  “Wait,” Mariska said. “I’m…I’m the victim, here. I called you.” She started struggling against the restraints. A familiar sensation began to surge through her body as the claustrophobia set in. It started with a tingling in her face and chest, followed by rapid breaths, and profuse sweating.

  Panic.

  “Be quiet,” the officer said to her and then addressed one of the others, “She’s secured.”

  “I called you for help.” Mariska felt a knee in her back, and a hand pressed firmly against her head. She closed her eyes and retreated within herself. I need my mom, she thought.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Detective Wulf sat across the desk from Mari
ska. His cool, blue eyes, studied her like he was going to have to draw her from memory. She would have thought the police station would have been a little more subdued at this hour, but it was clear law and order was a twenty-four-hour a day operation. A woman screamed as she entered the room. Mariska was the only one who turned to look as the woman wearing a scant green dress with hooker-heels and fishnet stockings was shown to a seat against the far wall. The officer who led her there removed the handcuffs as she sat. Mariska couldn’t help but notice the woman’s makeup was smeared across her face, lipstick smudged half way up her cheek, and the eyeliner was definitely not water resistant. Her bloodshot raccoon eyes, torn stockings, and mussed hair told a story.

  “Mariska?” Detective Wulf said. “Are you okay?”

  She looked back at him and then to the woman again. Mariska started feeling sorry for the woman. She’d clearly been through hell tonight. No one deserved to be mistreated, but…the woman kicked at the officer standing guard over her. He took a step back, but not in time to avoid the loogie she spat on him. Mariska looked away before she puked.

  “Sorry, I was distracted,” Mariska said, motioning to the scene quickly deteriorating at the far end of the room. The detective’s expression remained one of concern. “I’m fine, really.”

  He smiled and leaned back in his chair, stretching his back, and then sat forward again. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  “First of all, I wanted to thank you for coming down to the police station,” he said. “I know you didn’t have to. I mean, you weren’t under arrest.”

  “Wasn’t I? I seem to remember being slammed to the ground and put in handcuffs.”

  He cleared his throat and addressed her in a tone adults used when explaining things to a child. “You reported a break-in and then hung up. How were the officers to know you weren’t the one breaking into the residence? Why the hell did you go inside in the first place?”