Multiple Wounds

by Alan Russell

  “Hop in.”

  He kept his brights on. She shielded her eyes while walking in front of the pickup. The truck was jacked up, riding high enough on oversized tires that she had to step up on a running board, then pull herself up to the passenger seat. The driver offered her a hand and a smile, but Helen accepted neither. She closed the door behind her, then tried to make herself as small as possible huddling next to the door. That amused the driver. She could see his white teeth flashing. The truck pulled away from the side of the road, its big wheels crunching the gravel.

  “Name’s Travis,” he said.

  She could smell the alcohol on his breath. Though he wasn’t in uniform, it was clear he was military, probably navy. He had the short hair, trimmed mustache, and attitude of enlisted men she knew.

  “You got a name?”

  “Lots of ’em,” she said.

  He laughed. She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn’t look at him, just stayed huddled next to the door.

  “Here I’m driving the back roads hoping to not run into the cops,” he said, “and I run into you. Not that I’m wanted or anything. It’s just that I had a little to drink. Last thing I expected to see on the road was someone like you.”

  She didn’t respond, didn’t tell him anything. But he figured he knew her type even without her talking. A john had probably just kicked her out of his car. But not damn likely before she had provided a service.

  “So what were you doing out here?”

  “Walking,” she said.

  He laughed again. “Funny one, aren’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. That’s a first, he thought. Hooker playing hard to get. “I thought you was a ghost at first. Then I figured I was really shitfaced. But you’re real enough, aren’t you?”

  His hand reached out to her, touched her shoulder, lingered a moment.

  “Oh yeah, you’re real enough.”

  He reached inside his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, then took a deep puff. “You a professional?” he asked, his question punctuated by smoke.

  “Professional what?”

  He laughed again, the easy laugh of someone drunk, and shook his head. “Oh, you’ll do,” he said. “Yeah, you’ll do.”

  They approached an intersection. Travis looked around, turned onto a sleepy road.

  “This isn’t the way,” she said.

  “Thought we could find ourselves a quiet spot to talk,” he said. “I saw you walking along and I said, ‘Here comes manna from heaven.’ Or is that womanna?”

  “I don’t want to stop.”

  “I got money, honey,” he said, as if that decided everything.

  He pulled the truck over, parked near two large eucalyptus trees. The nearest house was a hundred yards off and could barely be seen through the trees and the darkness.

  She reached for the door handle, but he grabbed her hand. “You’re not being very friendly,” he said.

  “Let go.”

  “Relax, sister. You don’t need to run off. We haven’t even had the chance to get to know one another yet.”

  “Let go.” Her voice was louder and deeper this time. More demanding.

  “Just calm down, honey,” he said. “I’ll drive you downtown in a bit. This is just our little detour. Time for games.”

  “Let go.”

  He was too drunk to notice how her voice kept changing. Had he been more aware, he would have heard the threat. With her free hand, she gouged her thumb into his right eye. He raised both hands to defend himself, but her nails were already raking his face and her teeth already snapping at him. He grabbed one of her hands, but she was much stronger than he ever would have expected. She pulled away and, with the flat of her palm, smashed his nose. He tried to cover up, but her hands kept finding vulnerable spots, kept hurting him. What really scared him, though, was her voice.

  “We’ll play my game,” she said, in a bass voice, a man’s voice. Or a demon’s. “Do you like my game?”

  For a moment she backed off, but it was a tactical maneuver. She swung one of her legs up and into his ribs. He heard a cracking and a moment later felt the pain. He grabbed at her leg, but that didn’t stop her attack. She kneed him and kept coming at him with her hands and teeth. And words.

  “You like my game?”

  He reached for the door handle. This time she was the one who tried to stop him. Travis suddenly felt very sober and very scared. He pushed with his weight against the door and fell to the ground. Still she kept coming at him, jumping down from the truck atop him.

  Rolling on the ground, he managed to get to his feet and then he started running. “Help!” he screamed. “Help!”

  He had picked a spot to park where no one could easily hear them. Now he regretted his choice.

  Cronos decided not to run after him. His response wasn’t merciful. He wanted to hurt the man, felt like his punishment had only started, but there were others who needed his disciplining even more.

  Free at last, Cronos thought. He had been bottled up for so long. They only allowed him out when the weakling was in danger, and then only for a short time. But not anymore. There were fewer of them now. They couldn’t dictate to him any longer. He was the ruler. And there were so many things he needed to do without delay.

  He got in the pickup, turned on the engine, and drove off. There were still dangers out there, he thought. Challengers. Obstacles to be removed. His impulse was just to attack. That’s what he was best at doing. Hurting and terrorizing. Most of the time he didn’t have to think, or want to, but he needed to plan the night. She was good at things like that. The Trickster. Snakes have their purposes. He distrusted words. They were for weaklings. Fools yap. He didn’t talk much, he just did. He reacted. She could do the talking. She’d like that.

  Cronos parked in front of the loft. He got out of the truck, then decided to let her out. But he kept control, didn’t relinquish his rule, although she pretended to act as if he weren’t there and as if she weren’t afraid of him, but she was. He could sense how Eris thought she was smarter than everyone else. As if that mattered. Breaking necks and smashing bones. That mattered. That was all the clever you needed to be.

  He didn’t have keys and would have broken down the security door, but she showed him another way. Mike was another artist living in the building who was currently using his loft as a living space, though he claimed it was only temporarily. She buzzed him, finally got a sleepy response, and said, “Hey, Mike, this is Holly-wood. Forgot my keys. Open sesame, please.”

  They were buzzed inside. After climbing up the stairs another locked door faced them, but she retrieved the spare key under the fire extinguisher and opened the door to the loft. Cerberus greeted them at the door. As they entered, the dog looked unsure. He backed off, wagging his stub of a tail slightly. Cerberus sniffed the air from a distance. The scent he picked up didn’t bring him any closer.

  “Hey, flea face,” she said.

  The dog whined, came forward, and let her run her hand over his head, but then he backed away again. Eris wished she could get away that easily. She was also only too aware of the other presence. He was like this big shadow that didn’t allow light. She felt him pressure her to make the calls. Eris acceded, but decided she’d do it her way.

  She sat down next to the phone. They sat down. She dialed the number, then picked up some scratch paper and started sketching. Or someone started sketching. Eris usually didn’t care about drawings, or paintings, but this was one time she felt compelled to doodle. Even before anyone answered, Eris felt as if she had dialed into a party line. He was there listening, hearing everything she said and heard and thought. Jason Troy picked up the phone, answered with the tone of someone disturbed from sweet dreams.

  “Daddy?”

  She used a little girl’s voice.

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry it’s so late.”

  Sorry. She wanted to laugh.

  “It’s just that I’ve been up thinking.”

  He
responded to her words, suddenly didn’t sound sleepy anymore.

  “I’ve been remembering all these things...”

  He sounded as if she had prodded him with something hurtful. And she had. The memories.

  “...and I didn’t know whether I should call you or the police.”

  Now she was pushing him. And he was afraid to push back.

  “I know Detective Cheever would like to talk with me. The two of you have met, haven’t you?”

  Eris enjoyed the goading. She pretended sweetness while inserting the knife.

  “I think he’d like to hear about these awful things I’ve been remembering...”

  She was pleased with herself, enjoyed playing with him.

  “Oh, it wasn’t that long ago, Daddy. I remember it now. I remember it like it was...”

  Was he sweating? she wondered. Was his face flushed?

  “Tonight? Now? I don’t know.”

  The old man talked very quickly.

  “No, not your house, Daddy. Somewhere else. Why don’t we meet at Kate Sessions Park, Daddy?”

  He didn’t want to go there. Eris pretended to waver, but she was only playing with him. That’s what he always said, didn’t he? Playing.

  It was then that Cronos intervened, forcing Eris into saying his words. Into calling his tune.

  “I’ll be at Kate Sessions Park in half an hour, Daddy. You better be there too.”

  Eris hung up the phone and tried to pretend she was independent of his commands, but he opened his mind up to her, just a little, enough so that she responded. She dialed the number, but all the while kept drawing as if she wasn’t concerned. A woman answered.

  “I saw something,” Eris said.

  The woman started asking questions, but Eris ignored her.

  “I saw Bonnie Gill being murdered. I was there. I was hidden. But I’ve been afraid to come forward. I don’t want any publicity. And I don’t care about the reward...”

  Eris sounded frightened. Troubled. The voice on the other line tried calming her, tried asking her questions.

  “I don’t want to give out my name,” Eris said. “I just want to tell what I know and then disappear. I saw the murderer. I got a good look at him...”

  The operator asked for a description, but Eris pretended to be hysterical.

  “You’re not listening!” she shrieked. “I can’t be involved. Calling you was probably a mistake...”

  The voice worked hard at assuring her that it wasn’t a mistake.

  “I’ve written everything down,” said Eris. “It should answer all your questions. I’ve got it sitting here. I just want to get rid of the notebook so I won’t have to think about this anymore.”

  Calm down, the woman said. Let’s just talk...

  “No more talk,” Eris said. “I figure if I give you my notes then maybe I can sleep again. Live again. I’ll be at Kate Sessions Park in an hour. Send somebody there.”

  The operator started protesting.

  “In an hour. That’s Kate Sessions Park in Pacific Beach. And I don’t want cops or anyone like that. I’m not answering questions. I’m just there to hand something off. You got it?”

  The operator did, but she tried to prolong the conversation. At his directive, Eris hung up the phone. She was a little slower to drop the pencil. Enough doodling, she thought. Enough of being someone else’s mouthpiece.

  Co-consciousness was the shits, she decided. Eris liked being in total control, didn’t enjoy having to share sensibilities with a black hole. She whistled for Cerberus, and he reluctantly came to her. After putting a leash around his collar, she walked him downstairs to the truck. He hopped up into the bed of the truck, his nails scrabbling along the metal. She hoisted herself up into the bed as well, tied his leash to a hook, then lowered herself down.

  Cronos didn’t care about the dog. But he’d had enough of her. He let her start the engine and then she started screaming.

  Hurting the other man had whetted his appetite. Now it was her turn. She was one of the pretenders to his throne. He, and he alone, would have control. He would rule. First the girl had left, then the Fates. It was her turn to go now. He was Cronos. He had eaten his own children. He was used to dining on himself.

  Eris tried to escape, but it was like seeking escape from herself. There was no appealing to him. There was only his blind consuming rage. It was like talking to a furnace. She tried to put barriers between them, but he tore them down. Oh gods, he was eating her mind. That’s what it felt like. She felt herself coming apart. Leaving...

  In the bed of the moving truck, Cerberus howled, and then howled again.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  When they passed the second patrol car, Cheever turned to Rachel and asked, “Had enough?”

  His question broke a long silence between them. He was frustrated at their failed search. For half an hour they’d driven around Point Loma looking for Helen. With the police now out looking for her as well, it seemed as if the two of them were literally just spinning their wheels.

  “I suppose.”

  Rachel could hear the passive-aggressive tone in her response. Neither one of them was in a good mood. She was worried about Helen and angry at herself. Rachel kept second-guessing what she had done. I shouldn’t have brought Helen to my house. I should have made sure she had round-the-clock help. And I never should have had a man over while Helen was in my home, especially someone she knew. Rachel wondered which one of Helen’s personalities was out. She hoped it was the Maenads. They usually only wanted to dance and party.

  Cheever was doing his own self-recriminating while playing a similar guessing game. That was the major reason for the uneasy quiet that had grown between them. They both felt guilty about their thoughts. Cheever kept imagining Diane going out into the night. Would she be as helpless as she seemed? And what would have motivated her to leave the house, to leave him?

  Even though they had supposedly agreed to end the search, Cheever kept driving along the residential streets, and both of them continued to look right and left.

  “Helen could be anywhere,” Rachel finally said. “She could be on this street hiding in the foliage and we’d never see her.”

  “She could certainly stay lost,” he said, “if she had a mind to.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  Cheever shook his head. “No, it was just an unfortunate choice of words.”

  He sounded dejected enough that Rachel regretted the sharpness of her response. “Or my unfortunate need to misinterpret,” she said.

  The tension between them eased. Both of them found it a little easier to breathe. “I keep thinking about where she could have gone,” Cheever said. Or at least, he thought, that was one of the things he kept thinking about.

  “She doesn’t have any money,” Rachel said. She had seen to that detail, though at the moment Rachel wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. “But she does have lots of friends, especially in Ocean Beach. If she hitchhiked, she could have hooked up with them already. Or she could have met up with them at one of her clubs.”

  Cheever checked the time. It was five minutes after two. Last call had already come and gone. “Too late to look for her in the clubs,” he said. “They’re all closed now.”

  Rachel had another idea. “What about her loft?”

  “The motivation of home sweet home?”

  “More than that. Her art’s there.”

  The Taurus responded to Cheever’s right foot, rapidly picking up speed. Cheever sped through the deserted residential streets, cut over to Rosecrans, then turned onto Harbor Drive and didn’t spare the gas heading into downtown San Diego. Cops can speed with impunity, but even without a badge he would have been safe that night. Only a handful of cars were on the road. The deserted streets reminded Cheever of too many other nights.

  “Because of my job I get called out a lot in the middle of the night,” he said. “Sometimes it seems like I’m the only person a
wake in the whole county. The whole world.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “Alone. Jealous. I wonder why I’m up and everyone else is asleep. I have fantasies about being one of those people nestled in bed and oblivious to everything. A few times I’ve had to stifle this impulse to honk the horn and shout out Paul Revere kind of messages.”

  Rachel smiled, turning away to look out into the night. She took note of the empty streets and lifeless ports and said, “I’m not used to seeing everything look so deserted.”

  “You notice it even more on the freeways,” he said. “I remember one Christmas Eve coming back from a homicide and everything was so absolutely still. Must be about a million people that live along the route that takes me home, but I was the only one out. I don’t think I ever felt so alone as that night.”

  Cheever wondered what it was about her that kept bringing out his admissions. Drive and shut up, he thought. He pushed hard on the accelerator along Broadway, ignored the traffic lights, and turned on Seventh Avenue. As they pulled up to Helen’s building, Cheever noticed something.

  “There are lights on in her loft,” he said.

  They hurried out of the car. Cheever had Helen’s keys, courtesy of his dog-walking. Before opening the security door, Cheever pulled out his gun.

  “Is something wrong?” Rachel asked.

  “Just taking precautions,” Cheever said, but he still made a point of preceding her up the stairs.

  His ascent, Rachel noticed, was a very vigilant one. He motioned for her to stop at the top of the stairwell landing.

  “You stay here,” he whispered, “while I check out her loft.”

  “Why? And I don’t need to hear an encore about ‘taking precautions.’”

  Cheever closed his mouth before opening it again, apparently swallowing the reply he had originally intended. “Cerberus isn’t barking,” he said. “He’s too much of a watchdog to have let us get this far without sounding an alarm.”

  While Rachel considered his words, Cheever walked to the doorway, his footsteps slow and careful. Positioning himself to the right of the door, he reached out with his left hand to work on the locks, but that proved to be unnecessary. The door was unlocked. He inched it open, then surveyed the room with two quick bobs of his head before going inside. After less than a minute, he returned to the doorway and motioned for Rachel to approach.