Deceived

by James Scott Bell

  Boyd’s half-sotted face grew hard. “A guy, huh?”

  “Boyd, this is Daniel MacDonald. He’s a friend.”

  Mac stuck his hand out. Boyd ignored it.

  “Tell him I want to talk to you alone,” Boyd said.

  “He’s here on business,” Rocky said. “And I don’t want to talk to you anyway.”

  “Come on, babe, I came all the way — ”

  “It’s okay, friend,” Mac said. “Tomorrow is another day, like they say. She’ll call if she wants to see you.”

  Boyd just stared at him. Rocky couldn’t help noticing they were almost exactly the same height and build. She could almost smell the testosterone shooting into the room, like gas through a pipe.

  Then Boyd said, “Why don’t you get out?”

  Rocky said, “Boyd, please — ”

  “I’m talking to him.”

  “Now look,” Mac said.

  “You look,” Boyd said. “You don’t get out, I’m gonna get mad. You want to see that?”

  “I don’t want to fight you,” Mac said.

  “Just go!” Rocky said. She put her hands on Boyd’s chest and tried to turn him around. He didn’t turn. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her into the wall.

  The moment she hit it, the side of her head thunking, she saw Mac move like a big cat. With an almost balletic grace, he grabbed Boyd’s right arm and twisted it behind his back. Mac’s left arm wrapped around Boyd’s neck.

  It was obvious Boyd was rendered fully and completely powerless. The only thing he could do was curse, which he started doing in earnest.

  Mac pulled with his left arm, choking off the words.

  “No more of that,” he said, then started guiding Boyd toward the apartment door. He called to Rocky to open it for him.

  She did, then followed as Mac escorted him to the stairwell.

  As they went, Boyd fought to say something or do something. But each time he did, Mac would apply some kind of pressure and Boyd would stop.

  “Now you just listen,” Mac said, heading down the stairs. “No hard feelings here, but you have to stop this kind of thing.”

  Boyd grunted, fought, was restrained again by Mac.

  Mac said, “Believe me, pal, I know what you’re going through.”

  More struggle, more pain for Boyd. They reached the bottom of the stairwell.

  “And the only thing that helped me,” Mac said, “was admitting to myself that I was a permanent jerk, and if I didn’t turn my life around, I’d be dead.”

  Mac aimed Boyd toward the double front doors of the apartment building. Rocky hurried over, opened them. A hard rain was coming down. Mac marched Boyd into it and released him with a hard push.

  Boyd shot halfway down the walk, slipped, fell into the grass patch. Cursing now without restraint, he got up and pointed at them.

  “Take me inside,” Mac said to Rocky.

  “What?” she said.

  He put his arm around her and turned them toward the doors.

  “What’s wrong?” Rocky said.

  “Get me inside before I beat him to death,” Mac said.

  11:04 a.m.

  Rain streaked the windshield. It was like that scene in that movie Psycho that scared her to death the first time she saw it. There was a woman who stole a lot of money and was trying to get away. And the rain came down and she could hardly see out the window of her car.

  When she finally saw something, it was that creepy motel where she got cut to pieces.

  It occurred to Liz that she was just like that woman in the movie. And she wondered if she would end up in pieces in a bathtub.

  That was called fate, and that’s what you couldn’t get out of. Fate or luck, or whatever. That’s what killed Arty and that’s what was trying to get her.

  She looked in her rearview mirror. She wondered if she was being followed. What if a cop was following her? What if they had her on the radar screen?

  What if Arty was watching her?

  Why did she keep thinking that? Okay, she told herself, it’s all right to feel a little crazy. You just killed a couple of people. You burned up their bodies. You have all kinds of adrenaline rushing through your system. Don’t worry about it. Move on.

  Keep moving. Always.

  She almost ran into the back of a Toyota pickup. She hit the brakes and skidded on the wet surface of the road. The car fishtailed. That took her into the opposing lane. Oncoming headlights in the overcast late morning almost smashed into her.

  The angry honk of the furious driver shattered her ears.

  It was raining hard. She kept thinking of the bags she had hidden being washed away in a torrent. She got back on the right side of the road and continued, keeping a steady pace of twenty miles per hour.

  She turned into the entrance of Pack Canyon Park. There was nobody in the parking lot. Of course not. It was too wet for the park. Too wet to be hiking.

  But not for her.

  11:05 a.m.

  “You wouldn’t really do anything like that,” Rocky said. Mac was sitting now, back in Geena’s apartment, breathing hard. The red in his face was slowly fading.

  “I could,” he said.

  “I just don’t believe it. The fact is, you stopped yourself. You didn’t go after him. You came inside with me.”

  “I was this close,” Mac said, measuring with his finger and thumb.

  “But you didn’t, that’s the thing.”

  “Yeah. I guess that’s the thing. But every day I have to fight the thing.”

  “But that’s what your faith does, right? Like Arty used to tell me.” Rocky could hardly believe she was saying this. She, who didn’t have his faith, telling him what it meant.

  Heaven knows, anything goes.

  Rocky’s phone buzzed. A number she didn’t recognize.

  “This is Eric Lendsian,” the voice on the other end said. “I’m with mall security at The Promenade.”

  “Security?”

  “Do you know someone named Frederick Towne?”

  Uh-oh. “He’s my father.”

  “He’s here, he’s disoriented. He says he has a car, but we don’t think he’s in any condition to drive.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “He had a union card in his wallet. We called and got routed to another number, someone named Arty.”

  “My brother. He died.”

  “This was the next number on the contact sheet. Can you possibly come and get him? He wants to go, and we can’t force him — ”

  Rocky looked at her watch. “Half an hour.”

  “Let me give you my number, and you can call me when you get here.” Rocky wrote it down and clicked off.

  She looked at Mac. “I have to drive to the valley. It’s my dad. What else can happen today?”

  “I’m going with you,” he said.

  11:42 a.m.

  This is stupid! Liz thought. The rain was so hard it was almost coming through the umbrella. She had her Nikes on, and all they did was get caked with mud. She stopped every now and again and held her feet out in the rain to wash them off. Then she started walking again.

  She reached the high point of the path in about twenty minutes. The place where Arty had fallen. In the gloom she thought she could see his body again, down below. But it was just discolored earth. She thought she heard a voice and spun around. But it was nothing. Just rivulets of water pouring down the hillside because of the rain.

  She was cold. Cold and wet. Get the jewels, she told herself. Get them before you die from a stupid cold!

  You’ d like that, wouldn’t you, Arty? You’ d like it that I got dead because of what I did. They’d all like it.

  11:54 a.m.

  It was really coming down, the rain. It pounded the top of Mac’s truck, but at least the traffic was moving a little.

  And at least he was helping Rocky. He wanted to help her.

  He found, in fact, that he just wanted to be with her.

  But he told
himself not to think that. Because he was not a good choice.

  Choices.

  He’d been thinking a lot about choices lately. The choices he made that were bad, that still haunted him.

  Pastor Jon set him straight on that. While God forgives your sins when you confess Christ, you’re not spared the consequences of your actions. Like King David, when the baby he sired in adultery was taken from him.

  Choices.

  He had a choice whether to hold up the liquor store that night. He’d had a fight with Athena about money a couple days before, right after he’d been given the runaround by the VA again.

  He wasn’t approved for any further surgery, they said. They’d done all they could, they said. Just treat the pain the rest of your life, pal, and good luck to you.

  That’s the way he heard it, anyway.

  So it’s Christmas, and you can’t get anything for your kid because you blew your only employment right after Thanksgiving. You drink too much, and when your wife gets on you about it, what do you do? Put her in her place, that’s what. Yeah. Because you’re not gonna take that from anybody.

  Find a motel. Don’t tell anybody where you’re going.

  You’ve got that revolver your dad had, that Colt, and you’ve taken care of it, and it’s sitting there, and you remember that little liquor store you were in once is an easy target. Older Korean couple in the place.

  And as you’re sitting there in the car, across the highway, watching the place, waiting for the right time, you think you hear a voice in your head. You get ready for the talons to dig in, but this time they don’t.

  This time it’s an actual voice, and it says something like, You don’t need to do this. That’s it. You heard it in your head. And then felt a moment’s calm like everything was going to be all right.

  But just then the old Korean man decides it’s the time to run out for something. He gets into an old car at the edge of the strip lot and drives away.

  Choices. You chose to get out of the car.

  Mac brought his thoughts back to Rocky. “You’re right about me and Arty,” he said.

  “How’s that?” Rocky said.

  “It does change everything. Faith does.”

  Rocky nodded. “You know, it’s funny. I have a friend who has tried just about every spiritual fad there is, and she hasn’t changed a bit.”

  12:00 p.m.

  Liz thought, Rain can drive you crazy. Like waterboarding. Like Chinese torture.

  Like life. Stupid life.

  I am not going to let water get the best of me. I’m not going to let lightning strike me, even if it comes from the hand of God.

  Now how do I get to the stones without slipping and breaking my neck?

  She was at the spot now where Arty had fallen.

  Are you here, Arty? Leave me alone.

  No such thing as ghosts.

  Money is waiting. Money. You will never have to worry about living like a redneck again. You will be able to have what you want, when you want it.

  She was about to start down the rocks, toward the hiding place. It would be a wet hike but so what?

  Then: “Hey!”

  It sounded like a rifle shot. Liz turned. In the misty rain, she saw him. Coming toward her.

  It was Arty. It was him. He’d been waiting for her.

  Ghosts couldn’t hurt you if didn’t let them.

  “Hey there!”

  Closer. He didn’t look like Arty now. It wasn’t him at all. No, another person. A man.

  And they were all alone in the rain.

  Don’t be paranoid. Don’t stop moving.

  “Listen,” the man said.

  She didn’t have a weapon with her. Funny, but now that she was a killer, her preferred instrument was the knife. She wished she had one. What if he tried something?

  “You shouldn’t be out here,” the guy shouted.

  A swift kick to the classified section might do it. But there was only so much damage you could do with tennis shoes.

  The guy was short. Not much taller than she. Looked Latino. His black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a black jacket and jeans.

  She got ready for the kick. The path was muddy. She’d have to be careful not to slip.

  When he was about five yards away, he said, “I work for parks and rec,” he said. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  A city employee. Ha. Liz said, “I like it out here.”

  “It’s dangerous.”

  “Is the park closed?”

  “It’s gonna be. That your car in the lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you back.”

  Rain pounded their umbrellas.

  Liz said, “I’ll come out in a bit.”

  “I can’t let you stay.”

  “It’s okay — ”

  “Come on.” He motioned for her to follow. “Before it gets worse.”

  Clearly, he was going to stick around and do his duty. A real civil servant, this guy. A credit to his employer. Something to do on a rainy day. Hassle people who want to use the park.

  A thought flashed quickly through her mind. Of him falling. In the same spot Arty did. If she could just manipulate him a little, it wouldn’t be too hard.

  12:22 p.m.

  “Dad, it’s me,” Rocky said.

  He looked at her, but his eyes weren’t focusing. They were in the security office on the second floor of the mall. A modest box of a room with a desk and computer, a white board, a filing cabinet, and a bike that presumably belonged to the guard, a serious-looking man of about thirty.

  Mac stood by the door, the security guard sat in a squeaky chair. On the only other chair sat Rocky’s dad.

  “Like I said,” this security guard told her, “he looked really disoriented. He wouldn’t let me call the paramedics.”

  “No!” her father said.

  “I think you better take him to hospital,” the guard said.

  “Where’s my sandwich?” her dad said.

  “He thinks he’s supposed to be served lunch here,” the guard said.

  “Where is it?” her dad said.

  “Dad, it’s me, Rocky.”

  “Where’s Arty?”

  Rocky looked at the security guard, who shrugged. To her dad she said, “Arty can’t be here right now. I am here. Come with me, okay?”

  “I want my sandwich.”

  “That’s where we’re going,” Rocky said. “We’re going to get a sandwich.”

  “We are?”

  “Yes. A big, honking sandwich.”

  “What kind?”

  “You’ll like it,” she said.

  He hesitated a moment, then nodded. He tried to get out of his chair but couldn’t on his own. Mac came over. He and Rocky each took an arm and helped her dad up.

  “Rocky?” her dad said.

  “I’m here.”

  “Where’s Arty?”

  “Maybe we should go find him,” she said. “We’ll go find Arty and then he can take care of you, just like you want him to, okay, Dad? Will that be all right with you, Dad?”

  The security guard made a face, like he wasn’t sure now whether to let her take her own father out of the office.

  “We have a close, loving relationship,” Rocky told him. “Just like so many other happy families.”

  “Eh?” her father said. “I want a sandwich. Who’s that?”

  “That’s Mac,” Rocky said. “He was a friend of Arty’s.”

  “Where’s Arty?”

  She took her dad by the arm, which felt bony, and steered him out of the security office.

  “Wait,” the guard said, “I need you to sign something.”

  “I’ll take him,” Mac said. “We’ll wait out here.”

  She was glad Mac was here. He was a steadying force. She went back into the office, read the waiver and signed it.

  Then she and Mac took Dad to the elevator. Her dad was walking with a limp. She could tell, even in hi
s disoriented state, that he was mad about this. He was always self-sufficient. He must really hate having her and Mac helping him.

  They struggled with him to the first floor, then out the side doors to the parking lot.

  It was still raining hard.

  “I don’t suppose you know where your car is, do you, Dad?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. We need to get you to a doctor.”

  He pulled his arm away from her. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Dad, we need to take you to the doc — to get a sandwich. Come with me, please.”

  “Where’s my car?” He looked around and started out into the rain. Mac caught him and pulled him back.

  “Easy there, Mr. Towne,” he said.

  “Who are you?” Dad said.

  “A friend,” Mac said. “And I like sandwiches, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. I’ll make sure you get exactly the kind you want.”

  Dad looked at Rocky. He looked like he was trying to piece everything together, but the puzzle was scattered all over the lot. Then he said, “He’s okay. Let’s go.”

  12:41 p.m.

  The parks-and-rec guy was still standing there in the parking lot, stupidly waiting for her to drive off. Earning his pay.

  She would have to come back later, after the rains.

  She cursed, slamming her hands on the steering wheel.

  It was almost as if someone was trying to stop her. Arty.

  Arty, do you think you can stop me?

  She wondered then if she was losing her mind. Part of her knew she was.

  No, I won’t let it happen.

  Tomorrow. You can come back tomorrow.

  Don’t try to stop me, Arty. It won’t happen. Stay where you are.

  Tomorrow, I’ ll get away from you. From all of you.

  4:33 p.m.

  “Thanks for being here,” Rocky said. It was about time she thanked him. They were in the waiting room outside Emergency.

  “Glad I can be.”

  “I think I’d go a little bonkers if I didn’t have someone to talk to.” The place was sterile, dull brown. A TV droned the local news. An older Asian man across the room was listening to the news. Or at least staring at the monitor.

  “You can talk to me,” Mac said.

  “Okay. What’ll we talk about?”

  “How about tulips?”