Smoke

by Joe Ide

  He sidled along slowly, too slowly. Crowe and Warren were getting louder and wilder, ready to feast, but if he hurried, he might fall. Go faster, Isaiah. The wind picked up, the canyon a wind tunnel, the force of it nearly blowing him off balance, grit flying in his face. He stopped to rest, both feet inserted into a narrow crevice—it gave way! He nearly cried out. Lunging forward, he got his elbows over the cliff edge, legs bicycling, trying to find traction, dirt and gravel falling into the canyon. He was holding himself up with his forearms, trying to dig into the rocky cliffside with his toes, his lungs burning black. For a moment, he knew he was going to fall. He almost gave up, but the impulse terrified him. With a final burst of energy, he threw a leg up and over onto flat ground. He wrestled his body after it and lay there, breathing in gasps. Amazing what you can do when you think you’re going to die.

  He was just inside the circle of light, clearly visible; all the killers had to do was turn and look. Irene and Gretta had been dragged near the fire. They were sitting next to each other, their arms folded in on themselves, heads bowed like they were waiting for the firing squad. Cannon was curled up, holding his leg with both hands and trying to stanch the bleeding. His pant leg was soaked, blood all over the ground. Warren was standing over him, muttering and drooling, an axe in his hand. Crowe was waving the Bowie knife around, circling the women, jeering and laughing at them. He stopped. “The fucking fire is almost out again!” he bellowed. “Get some more firewood, Warren.”

  “You go get it,” Warren said, belligerent. “I did it the last time.”

  “Warren, I said go get some more wood.”

  “No, goddammit. I did it the last time.” Crowe moved in close. Warren stood his ground, the two psychotics a foot apart.

  “Look, you fucking imbecile. I’m not telling you again,” Crowe said. “Go get goddamn firewood!”

  “Tell me all you want, but it’s your fucking turn!” Warren’s grip tightened on the axe.

  “War-renn…”

  “Fuck you, Crowe. It’s your goddamn turn. Let it get dark for all I care.” Crowe jammed a gun under Warren’s chin and fired. BLAM!! Warren’s head snapped back and he collapsed like he’d bled out all at once. Isaiah was shocked a moment, got his senses back and crawled for the tent.

  Crowe stood over Warren’s body. “I told you, didn’t I?” he screamed. “You stupid shit! Didn’t I fucking tell you?” He kicked Warren viciously, again and again. There was no remorse, only rage. He stopped, exhausted, reeling, wheezing and gulping air. He found a flashlight and hunted around for more firewood.

  Isaiah continued crawling until he reached the back of the tent. He cut open the fabric with the folding knife. He slipped inside. He heard Crowe dumping wood on the fire, the flames rising, crackling and spitting, Crowe’s silhouette enormous against the tent flap. His back was turned. Isaiah hunched down, got his weight beneath him, holding the knife low. He took a deep breath and launched himself through the flap.

  He hit Crowe like a linebacker, swinging the knife up to gut him. Crowe was propelled forward, but Isaiah’s timing was off. The knife hit nothing. He lost his balance and nearly fell, extending his knife hand to catch himself. He dropped the knife, his palm landing in the embers. He cried out and snatched his hand back. He stepped away a few paces, holding his wrist, his palm burned to shit.

  Crowe had dropped the gun but kept his balance. They were on opposite sides of the fire, looking at each other through the blaze, the air shimmering with heat, sparks teeming like fireflies, the flames reflected in their sweat, flickering gold, shadow and amber. Crowe stood tall and drew the Bowie knife. Isaiah readied himself. He looked for a weapon, but there was none. Crowe charged through the fire. He was massive, his eyes like the flames themselves, clouds of sparks fleeing his clomping footsteps. Isaiah sidestepped him but barely. Crowe whirled around to face him. Isaiah was too worn-out to run.

  Crowe grinned. “I’m going to cut you off at the knees, boy.” He came forward, Isaiah backing away, passing the tent, the cliff behind him. He started to go right, but Crowe mirrored him. He feinted left and went right again, but Crowe stayed with him. Isaiah was too slow to get around him. His hand hurt bad. The cliff was getting closer. It was like the gulley all over again. The wind picked up, the trees hissing their terror. Isaiah kept retreating. All he could do was attack. He’d get slashed but maybe not killed. Maybe go in high, try and duck under the blade and hit him in the knees. Crowe was holding the knife in front of him, waist high, waving it back and forth. It didn’t matter if Isaiah went in high or low or backward. He’d be stabbed, gutted and thrown on the fire.

  “Didn’t I tell you this would happen?” Crowe said, coming closer. “What goes around comes around.” He had to talk loud over the wind. “I’m either gonna kill you or you’re gonna jump. Jumping is probably better, but you might not die right away. You’d be lying there watching the critters eat your guts.” He twirled the knife in his hand. “Death would be a fucking holiday.” He’s right, Isaiah thought. Don’t let him get you. Crowe stopped. Isaiah stopped. In his periphery, he could see he was on the very edge of the cliff. He could feel the emptiness behind him.

  “Well?” Crowe said, grinning. “What’s it gonna be?”

  Isaiah turned his back to Crowe. He looked down into the abyss, the wind roaring, leaves and pine needles pelting his face. Jump, Isaiah. You’ll never see Grace again. He closed his eyes, bent his knees, his legs tensed—BOOM! BOOM! The concussion nearly knocked him over. He spun around. Ava was there, her swollen face contorted beyond torment, beyond horror. She was holding Cannon’s riot gun, wisps of smoke from the barrel whipped away by the wind. Crowe had been thrown forward, his head at Isaiah’s feet. There was only the faint light from the campfire. Isaiah squinted down at him. Crowe looked strangely intact.

  “Look what you did to me, look what you did,” the killer groaned. He tried to move but was rigid from the waist down. Isaiah looked closer. Crowe’s pants were in shreds, his legs a bloody mess. Ava had kneecapped him. She dropped the gun and it clattered to the ground.

  “That’s for Hannah,” she said. Isaiah put his arm around her and led her away. When they were near the fire, she fell to her knees. She put her face in her hands and wept, saying over and over again, “I want my sister. I want Hannah.”

  The police and paramedics arrived. There was nowhere to land a helicopter. Isaiah, Ava, Irene, Gretta, Cannon and Crowe were rushed down the mountain on stretchers. Warren followed in a body bag.

  Billy had suffered a concussion and his shoulder was dislocated. He lay in the hospital bed, groggy from the painkillers, a swath of gauze covering his head and supporting his chin, his arm in a sling. He’d seen Gretta briefly. She was on a gurney, and they touched hands for a moment.

  “Things will be better,” his mom said, and she shut her eyes.

  He felt terrible. He’d tried to save the day and screwed everything up. It was all his fault. He wondered if it had been worth it. Two serial killers were out of commission. That was something, wasn’t it? But the price. Mom, Irene, Ava, Cannon and Isaiah were all badly injured. How Isaiah had managed to do what he’d done was a miracle. If there was ever somebody who never had to apologize for who he was, it was Isaiah, hands down. Ava had been right. He always thought about himself first, but now he had a reason not to. He had to help heal his family.

  Ava came in. She was wearing a bathrobe that was too big for her. The side of her face was badly swollen. Her eyes seemed recessed, in shadow. She looked beautiful. She sat down on the bed and put her hand on his.

  “It was my fault, Billy. All of it. I got you into it.” He started to speak, but she cut him off. “Don’t be a martyr. If you’re blaming yourself it’s because you want to.” He said nothing. “I’m leaving tomorrow, I’ve got to get home. They’re sneaking me out early. There’s press all over the place. They think you’re a hero, Billy.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “And so do I.” She walked to the door, turned, and loo
ked at him in a way he’d never forget. “I’ll call you,” she said. And she was gone.

  Billy didn’t move for a long time. Ava wasn’t a daydream anymore or a damsel in distress and not the key to his happiness. She was an ordinary person in great pain and sorrow. Maybe she would call him, maybe not. He’d accept it either way. He wasn’t a hero, no matter what anybody said. But he’d been courageous. He’d faced danger and hadn’t backed down. He thought a moment and smiled. What the hell, Billy boy. Maybe you’re a hero after all.

  Isaiah awoke. His hand was bandaged, the pain was dulled by the meds. His belongings were in a white plastic bag hung on a chair. He remembered the Ortegas visiting him. Mrs. Ortega brought him food. Mr. Ortega brought him a TracFone. He called Deronda and left a message. Please ask Grace to call him.

  The doctor came in. She said the others were here in the hospital and resting. They were all badly injured but none of them critically so. Everyone would recover eventually. The doctor said she was keeping him for forty-eight hours. He had an IV for hydration, pain meds as needed and antibiotics for possible infections. Mostly, he had to rest. The doctor left. Isaiah wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. He didn’t want to see the others. He didn’t want their gratitude and well-wishes. They would never be friends or even stay in touch. The only thing they had in common was blood and death.

  Despite what the doctor said, Isaiah knew none of them would really recover. They’d forever be haunted by nightmares, flashbacks and an ever-present sense of danger. Ava would see the riot gun blowing Crowe’s legs to pieces and wake up screaming. The consequences of violence were crippling even when you’re righteous. And they lasted until your heart stopped beating and the pain left you forever.

  There would be no more sheriffs hunting for you or knife fights with serial killers or suffocating with dirt on your face or escaping from a motorcycle gang or hanging on to cliffs by your fingernails. He’d rather have PTSD. He’d rather be sick and depressed than wallow in shit with the infectious offal of humanity, where no one should linger, let alone have a career. He wished he was someone else. He wished Marcus had never died, and he’d gone to college. He wished he’d become a scientist or a cook or a garbageman or anything but what he was. A man alone who sought justice for those who couldn’t seek it for themselves, who was driven to follow the dark path wherever it led, however deep and horrific.

  Something dawned on him. The PTSD symptoms had vanished. The fear, the physical pain, the intense concentration and the constant machinations of his mind had overcome them. Work had overcome them. Was that his choice? he wondered. Work or be sick? Work or be nothing? Be sick, he thought. Be nothing. Step out of the cesspool and don’t look back. Sit on the banks of Rush Creek and watch the sunlight shimmering off the reeded pools and birds darting through the trees. Sit there forever and not see another soul. Who cared about anything if Grace was gone? She wouldn’t call back. He’d lost her forever. He dozed. The phone buzzed. He was instantly awake.

  “Grace?”

  “It’s me,” Deronda said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” There was a pause. She wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

  “What?”

  “Grace has gone missing.”

  “Missing? What do you mean?”

  “I mean she’s missing and nobody knows where she’s at,” Deronda said. “Last time I talked to her was a few days ago. I called and texted her a bunch of times, but she don’t answer. I was hoping she was with you.”

  The room was suddenly cold. “No, she’s not,” Isaiah said. He got out of bed. “Did you call the police?”

  “They said to wait seventy-two hours and it’s seventy-two hours now. I’ll call them again, but—”

  Isaiah interrupted. “Did Grace leave things behind? Car keys, phone, that kind of thing?”

  “No, they was gone, her car too. The police said she might have gone on a long weekend somewhere, but she always told me before.” Isaiah was putting on his clothes. The nurse came in.

  “Sir? You’re not supposed to leave yet.”

  “Go away,” he said sharply, and she did. “Keep calling her, Deronda, and keep asking around. Do you know Carter Samuels?”

  “The cop? Yeah, I know him.”

  “Tell him what you told me and call Dodson too.”

  “Dodson’s already on it. So is Cherise, Gloria, TK, Mo and the winos, Michael Stokeley and his crew. Your ex-clients too. Everybody in the damn hood is looking for her.”

  Isaiah pulled on his shoes. “I’m on my way.”

  “One more thing?” Deronda said. “I found something. I didn’t think nothin’ of it, but I showed it to Dodson and he flipped out. He tried to explain but it sounded crazy to me.”

  Isaiah stopped. “What? I don’t understand.”

  “It could have been anybody’s,” she went on. “I didn’t attach no importance to it. You seen one you seen ’em all.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You can go to the store and pick out any one you want, got ’em in colors, rhinestones, you name it—”

  “Deronda, what are you talking about?”

  “A dog collar. I found it in the driveway.”

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to Rick Smith and Peter Klein, whose knowledge of the ad world was indispensable, and to Ed Bartel, for his seminar on Harley Davidsons for Dummies. As always, my everlasting gratitude to the crew at Little, Brown and Mulholland, and to my agents, Esther Newberg and Zoe Sandler. Most of all to my wife, Diane, the sweetest person in the world.

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  About the Author

  Joe Ide is of Japanese American descent. He grew up in South Central Los Angeles, where his favorite books were the Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes stories. The idea that a person could face the world and vanquish his enemies with just his intelligence fascinated him. Ide went on to earn a graduate degree and had several careers before writing his debut novel, IQ, inspired by his early experiences and his love of Sherlock Holmes. Ide lives in Santa Monica, California.

  Also by Joe Ide

  IQ

  Righteous

  Wrecked

  Hi Five