Blood Crimes

by Dave Zeltserman

  Inside the gym bag were a pair of old Reeboks, a t-shirt, some sweats, and a bottle of water. He shoved the tire iron, a flashlight, and the Mercedes first-aid kit into the bag.

  It was a start.

  As he kicked off his stiff dress shoes and put on the Reeboks, he started thinking about what else he’d need for his journey. Packaged food, lots of water, duct tape, matches, dust masks, some rope. Basically, he had to make a mini-version of his home survival kit.

  No problem. He could find most of those things right here, between the catering wagon, wardrobe trailer, and the grip, prop, and lighting trucks. Film crews had everything.

  All he needed now was a plan of action.

  Marty figured there was maybe nine hours of summer daylight left. If he started walking now, even as out of shape as he was, he could easily be in the valley and heading down Ventura Boulevard by nightfall.

  That was okay.

  He certainly had nothing to fear in the valley, where Tarzan and Universal Studios had entire communities named after them and the oldest historical landmark was the Casa De Cadillac dealership.

  All he had to figure out now was the best way to get there.

  It was possible to live your entire life in Los Angeles and never see the bad parts of town, except in a seventy-mile-per-hour blur on the freeway or channel-flipping past the evening news on the way to a Cheers rerun.

  Even so, Marty knew where those dangerous neighborhoods were, and he was well aware that to get home, he’d have to walk through some of them. There was no way around it.

  But he tried to make himself feel better by looking at the bright side. He’d be walking in broad daylight, in the midst of chaos, and would only be in truly bad places for a few miles. There were far worse parts of the city he could be stuck in. At least he wasn’t visiting Compton, or South Central, when the quake hit.

  He slammed the trunk shut and spread the yellowed, torn street map out on top of it. Calabasas was on the south-western edge of the San Fernando Valley, on the other side of the Santa Monica Mountains and the Hollywood Hills.

  There were two major freeways into the valley, the 101 over the Cahuenga Pass just five or ten miles north of downtown, or the 405 through the Sepulveda Pass, a good fifteen miles or twenty miles west. Between the two passes, there were three major canyon roads that snaked over the Hollywood Hills.

  The other option was to head due west to the beaches of Santa Monica and then follow the Pacific Coast Highway north to one of the canyon roads that cut through the Santa Monica Mountains. But that meant crossing the entire LA basin, which was the last thing Marty wanted to do.

  He decided the quickest, safest way home was the way he’d come, taking the 101, better known as the Hollywood Freeway, northwest over the Cahuenga Pass into the valley.

  That was assuming there were no major obstacles in his path. Which, of course, there would be. Toppled buildings, buckled roads, crumpled freeways.

  But that wasn’t what worried him.

  It was the thousands of little obstacles. The people. The injured and the dead underneath it all. The earthquake’s human debris.

  Then there were the derelicts and gang-bangers, who he hoped would be too busy looting to pay attention to one man walking home.

  He wouldn’t look at anyone. He’d just hurry along. Gone before anyone noticed him.

  Just keep walking. Across the city, over the hills, and along the valley, never stopping until he got to his front door, where his wife would be waiting, alive and well.

  Simple. From point A to point B.

  Not too complicated. No reason he couldn’t do it. There were guys who walked across entire states in the frontier days. Or at least they did in the western novels his flunkies read and summarized for him.

  Marty zipped up the bag and headed for the trucks and trailers to assemble his kit.

  He was going home.

  Dead And Gone by Harry Shannon

  PROLOGUE

  Dry Wells, Nevada

  1968

  Folks were scared of Wayne Lee Garrett. Nobody could quite remember how long he’d been around, maybe five years and change. People said he was an outsider, a “flatlander,” come from a gaming town in the low desert. He’d been drafted, sent to Viet Nam for a couple of tours, went wrong in the head like a lot of the other boys. Anyhow, Garrett had moved way up into the hills to get away from the world, kill his own food and just be alone. That’s what folks said.

  Wayne Lee was a big man, sunburned and sweaty, inclined to wear overalls and muddy work boots. He scowled a lot, always crinkled up his eyes, but it wasn’t from laughing. Had a pair of thick eyebrows looked like beetles about to mix it up. Later on, trying to say something nice about him, young Reverend Grass allowed as to how Garrett was always in church come Sunday, mumbling to himself, following right along with Biblical passages like a man who’d done some studying, lots of praying, maybe even some preaching of his own.

  Now, along about 1966, a local spinster named Mary got herself in a family way. That kind of thing was considered shameful back then, not at all like it is today. About thirty seconds before the baby dropped, old Wayne Lee up and offered to make her an honest woman. Mary, figuring it was better than being mocked for the rest of her life, agreed to get hitched. Young Reverend Grass did the honors.

  Wayne Lee took her high into the mountains to live with him. He delivered her baby with his own two hands. Garrett had bought this land for pennies on the dollar, and probably didn’t think to ask why. He probably should have. But by the time Mary arrived, he’d already built an old redwood cabin and an outhouse, run electricity to it; tapped a well to get some fresh water in the kitchen. Hell, even bought a used black and white television. It wasn’t much of a life, but it must have been decent, because the two of them popped out another kid right away.

  Whatever happened that awful night had to have started a ways back. Wayne Lee Garrett and his family didn’t mingle much, mostly kept to themselves. They came down the 41 to buy groceries now and again, rode into town in an old Chevy that farted black smoke, Garrett looking neither left nor right, but did their business and left. He brought his family to church, but the never stayed for cookies and punch, not even once.

  At first Mary, she was a bit different. Now and again she’d bring the children down in that Chevy -- couldn’t hardly see her tiny face behind the steering wheel -- and treat them to a cherry ice cream cone. She’d try to talk to folks, smiling and all, and most men would be polite, but a lot of the women didn’t care for her because of her past. They’d do that strange thing women do, where they are really nice in ways that cut you down at the same time.

  Mary’s smile would stay frozen in place when they walked away laughing, but a sorrowful hurt crouched behind her eyes. She’d cringe like a whipped puppy. And after a time, she stopped coming to town at all. Meanwhile, Wayne Lee continued to attend church services, but all that last summer and fall he’d be there alone. Just sitting in the back row, rocking and whispering.

  The devil’s breath was on the town late that fall, meaning the kind of bitter wind comes scratching at the window like a living thing, whips down the fireplace and turns your house ice cold. Now, here’s the thing. A tribe of Native Americans once lived high up in these same mountains. Legend has it they were called the Horse Humans. It’s said their elders believed that wind was the shrieking of an evil spirit called Orunde, a demon that drives men mad. Listening to that wind howling outside, it wasn’t a stretch to think they might have known what they were talking about.

  And Wayne Lee Garrett’s little redwood cabin? It was built right on top of the damned Indian graveyard. See, that’s why the land went so cheap in the first place.

  The night it all went down, Wayne Lee Garrett stood in the living room of his small cabin listening to a plastic 45 spinning on his record player. It was a Nashville outlaw tune called “Forty Years of Pain.” That song was a big hit back then, sung by some young country star or another. />
  “He was a man,” went the lyrics, “who loved as hard as he drank. Lord, she was trouble. You can take that to the bank…”

  Wayne Lee Garret sighed. He turned and stared at his wife. Mary Garrett stared back. Wayne Lee whispered, “My sweetheart.”

  The record continued. “She broke his heart, took another man’s name, and he died alone…after forty years of pain.”

  “Our favorite tune, precious,” Garrett said, softly. “Our very own little baby making song.” Mary squirmed a bit in her chair, made an odd little whimpering sound through the dish rag jammed in her mouth. Garrett moved closer, stroked her skin. “I have to do this, Mary. You brought it on yourself by lying with another man.” She shook her head feverishly. Her mind raced, no no no I haven’t done anything I don’t know what you’re talking about please don’t no…Mary struggled against her bonds, watched with wide eyes as Garrett finished loading the Smith & Wesson 38. He produced a gentle smile. “I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands.”

  Mary tried to scream through her gag. Garrett lurched closer, whispered in her ear. “Hush. Hush, now. You don’t want them to wake up for it, do you? I’ll make this as quick as I can. I promise.”

  Torn, Mary struggled to contain herself as her demented husband walked heavily into the other room. A small girl’s sleepy voice. “Daddy?”

  BAM! And Mary shrieked and fought and BAM the second shot killed her other child. Wild with grief and terror, Mary sagged in the chair and wept. A third shot as Wayne Lee finished one of them off, and his footsteps slowly trudged back into the front room. The record player continued, and a jaunty guitar solo made this slaughter by lantern light seem all the more macabre. “Forty years of pain…”

  Oh, God, my poor babies, Mary thought in anguish. And her body trembled I am next, dear heaven he means to kill me, too.

  Wayne Lee put the gun against her stomach. Mary struggled in the chair, almost fell backward. He steadied her arm. Looked down with compassionate eyes. “It’s time.” Terrified and broken hearted, Mary closed her eyes. At the last moment, Garrett found it in his heart to spare her more agony. He moved the barrel and placed it over her heart instead. A muffled shot, a spray of blood against the kitchen sink and Mary was gone.

  “And he died alone, after forty years of pain…”

  The song ended. The record player scratched and complained but failed to reset itself. Garrett walked to a kitchen chair, scraped it backwards. Sat down heavily, listening to the noise from the machine.

  A small, wry smile crossed his face. “Forty years of pain,” he whispered, and stuck the 38 in his mouth. Seconds passed. Fear overtook him and he lowered the weapon. What happened? Where am I? What have I done? Mary!

  His eyes widened. Silence. The voices had stopped their incessant whispering. Wayne Lee Garrett twitched in the chair, horrified and alert. He turned off the record player. The scratching stopped. The cabin was still and silent. For the first time his situation fully penetrated. They were gone. Garrett was a murderer. His wife and children had been slaughtered, killed by his own hand. A brand new life destroyed. Wayne Lee Garrett began to sob. Why? Why? God, what have I done this?

  Outside, the wind wailed. Now it seemed to carry mocking laughter from the desolate hills. After a time, when the pain became too great, Wayne Lee Garrett put the gun back in his mouth. Nearly vomited but took a deep, deep breath and squeezed the trigger. This time he succeeded. The gun went off, and so did the back of his head.

  BOOM. Grey and red matter splattered the record player and raced up the back wall. Meanwhile, the song echoed through the woods, carried on the wind, forty years of pain...

  A constable found the family a few weeks later, from the stench of four darkened bodies, all fly-bloated and rotting. In fact, the smell was so damned ripe the place stayed empty for years. And naturally it began to get something of a reputation. “Go up there, you don’t see nothing,” the people said. “But you know what? You only think you’re alone.”

  That’s what they whispered to their children, too, and those kids told the generation after that. Until finally it was just the one sentence, gave the whole story about that old Indian graveyard and the Garrett cabin.

  “You only think you’re alone.”

  ONE

  The moving guy was a perpetual college student named Aaron, one of those laconic surfer dudes who never seemed more than ten minutes from a bong hit. He carried boxes in and out with brisk efficiently, sometimes using a metal dolly but often just his own gloved hands. The hardest part was the medical equipment, but stuff that was electrical had been carefully marked with numbered tape, which helped a lot. Somehow they’d managed to reassemble everything. It was finally time to go. Aaron stopped, leaned on the gate to close it. He grabbed his clipboard then took a long look around. Damn, he thought. Why the hell would anyone sane want to live way up here?

  The screen door squealed. Aaron looked up, squinted into the afternoon sun. His client cameout of the ancient redwood cabin, stood on the porch and slammed the screen door. Dust rose from the splintered wood and settled again, like a wide cloud of insects too lazy to leave.

  “Blood hell,” Jack Wade said with a good-naturedgrin, “what a piece of shit!”

  The handsome young Englishman wore carefully torn jeans and a faded tee shirt that had probably set him back three hundred dollars at some shop in Beverly Hills. Aaron thought the guy looked like some movie star dressing down, or maybe a porn star dressing up. Jack glanced around the empty clearing, shrugged his muscular shoulders. “Still, I have to admit that it is kind of pretty up here.”

  “You don’t say.” Aaron took in the dilapidated redwood cabin made of splintering boards, the lonely clearing, the dense, piney woods and the foul outhouse. “Way to look on the bright side. Me, I prefer a little human company now and then.”

  “Well, it is unquestionably a pig sty, but at least I don’t have to worry about keeping up with the neighbors.”

  “Good point. You all set up in there?”

  “Almost.” Jack Wade stretched and forced a chuckle. “Can you believe it? That icebox has to be fifty years old, but it still works. Even the television pops on once in a while, before it goes off again. Must be some lose wires. And catch this. The owner put a drain in the kitchen floor, probably because the walls leak when it rains.”

  “A drain in the floor? Charming.”

  “Anyway, I put the food away and just used my cell to order groceries from some place called the Dry Wells market. I had to leave a message, so God only knows what’s going to show up.”

  “Don’t worry, they have to grow something fresh around here besides crystal meth,” Aaron said. “And at least you’ve got one hell of a wine collection.”

  “That we do. My spouse is quite the epicurean gourmet.”

  “Sorry, dude. I didn’t bring my dictionary.” Aaron finished totaling up the charges, motioned for the new owner to come closer.

  Jack didn’t notice at first. Aaron waved a second time. Jack jogged over with the studied insouciance of a natural athlete. “Okay, straight up,” Aaron said, conspiratorially, “tell me you didn’t pay good money for this.”

  “No,” Jack said. He flashed a killer smile. “To be honest, I won it in a card game.” He looked down at the clipboard. “That’s everything, right?”

  Aaron nodded. “All I need you to do is sign.”

  Jack examined the paperwork. He frowned. “What’s with the overcharges?”

  “Had to pack it up in the middle of the night, bro. That’s extra.”

  Jack scowled. Something unsettling flashed in his eyes. “What, you guys do one swing shift and we have to pay six hundred bucks?”

  Aaron looked down and away. “Hey, that’s also for being awake all night, and driving it all the way up here.” He lowered his voice further. “Now, you want to pay me in cash, I’ll do you a solid.”

  Aaron looked up hopefully. Jack’s face said he didn’t understand. Aaron cleared his throat. �
�For cash,” he whispered, “it’ll be like we never met.”

  Jack got it. He nodded and reached for his wallet. “Hang on.”

  The screen door banged again. A middle-aged brunette in hospital whites emerged from the cabin and walked briskly towards the moving van. “Mr. Wade,” Nurse Clark called, “your wife is in the bedroom. I did her makeup and combed out her hair.” The nurse had a reedy, emery board of a voice that seemed constantly tense. Not for the first time, Jack Wade wondered if the bun in her hair was half as tight as her ass. Still, he paused, managed to turn on the charm as the dour nurse moved closer. “Sure you can’t stay for a day or two, just until we get settled in?”

  “I hate to be crass about this, but you’re two weeks behind already.”

  “I understand, Nurse Clark, I was a medical student back in England, remember?”

  She held her ground. “Well, then you should understand more than most.”

  “I’m sorry to let you go, but the insurance money is gone, and we can’t afford to continue on our own.”

  “Mr. Wade, I have problems of my own.”

  Aaron didn’t care for drama. He sighed theatrically and rapped his fingers on the side of the moving van. “Look, Mr. Wade. Sorry for your troubles, but can we move this along? I haven’t got all day.”

  Jack counted out a number of hundred dollar bills. He handed them to the driver. “Here, and it’s like you just said, yeah?”

  The nurse fixed on the money, an eagle after a field mouse. “Okay, and while we’re on that subject, pay me. I’m not exactly running a charity here.”

  “Of course,” Jack said. He produced a checkbook, began to scribble. Somewhat mollified, Nurse Clark watched until she was certain every dollar was written down properly. “Naturally, I’d love to stay, but I need to get back to town to catch that bus. My damned car is still in the shop from the fender bender I had last week.” She tried to get a look at the remaining balance in his checking account but failed.