Deceived

by James Scott Bell

  “Hello, Liz.”

  She shrieked at the voice and spun around.

  10:34 a.m.

  Mac thought, She looks like a wounded animal.

  A dangerous, wounded animal. With crazy eyes.

  No quick movements, he told himself. She might snap.

  Liz looked between them. Mac sensed Rocky’s tension, but she was letting him do the talking.

  For the moment.

  They were three people alone in a cemetery. A hundred yards away, a man was mowing some grass. The steady hum of the mower was the only sound.

  Liz started shaking her head. No words. Just swiveling with a mad uncertainty.

  Mac said, “Whatever’s happened, it can be made right.”

  The head shake grew more pronounced. Then stopped as she stood up. She reached into her purse. She pulled out a gun.

  They were ten feet apart.

  Mac stepped in front of Rocky. “Liz, listen to me. I’m not out to get you. I want to help you. So does Rocky.”

  “No,” Liz said.

  “Yes, Liz, we do. We came here to help.”

  “Not her.”

  Rocky moved to Mac’s side. “Yes, Liz, me, too.”

  Pointing the gun at Rocky now, Liz shook her head. “You hate me.”

  “I don’t know you,” Rocky said. “And I never gave you a chance.”

  “Both of you hate me.”

  She’s getting close to crumbling, Mac thought. No sudden moves.

  He said, “We’re family. We need to work this out together.”

  “Not family,” Liz said. “Can’t be fixed, can’t be fixed. Can’t put it back together.”

  “Put the gun down,” he said softly. “Let’s talk it out.”

  A beat.

  Then another.

  No one moved.

  Then, slowly, with a look of astonishment, Liz began to lower the gun.

  Rocky took two steps toward her.

  Something didn’t look right. Mac was about to yell stop when Liz whipped the gun up again.

  Mac pulled Rocky behind him.

  Liz put the gun to her own temple.

  Mac jumped, without thinking, hands out, grabbing, contact.

  And heard the shot, as if in the distance.

  As if in a dream of death.

  Saturday

  The skies over LA were, at last, blue again. The city woke up to the weekend tentatively, almost as if it expected the rains to return.

  This despite what the cheery meteorologists on the local broadcasts had been telling them for the last few days.

  Yet gradually there was, in the early morning activities of Angele-nos, a sense of new beginnings.

  But not all was rosy.

  The Times carried a story about the fear of a hellish fire season a few months hence, because of all the new growth that would be caused by the rain. A scorching summer was expected, the story said, and fierce Santa Ana winds would turn the hills into tinderboxes.

  “We could be getting the worst fire season in a decade,” Los Angeles Fire Department Assistant Chief Wayne Gregg was quoted as saying. “But then again, they’re all bad.”

  In the Daily News, the lead story was about the mayor’s new proposal to quell gang violence. He was calling the plan “Love ’em Early,” and in a tearful news conference promised to reach at-risk kids at ages eight or nine instead of fourteen or fifteen.

  It was only going to cost twenty-four million dollars.

  And the Pack Canyon Herald burst forth with an across-the-page headline — its first in many years — announcing the closing of Pack Canyon Park.

  The city of Los Angeles had closed the park after state toxics regulators warned of a positive test for lead at a former skeet range, an area that now had a grass field and basketball court.

  An environmental consultant hired by the city found that one-third of the samples it took contained lead that exceeded health standards.

  Mark Young, captain of Rolling Thunder, a wheelchair rugby team that used Pack Canyon Park for practice, was upset. “We have three practices a week. Park space is hard to find. Now what are we going to do?”

  Los Angeles Parks and Recreation General Manager Glynnis Kirk was quoted as saying, “The safety of our park patrons always comes first, and while we understand a park closing is inconvenient, this was mandated by the State of California.”

  The California Department of Toxic Substances Control ordered a chain-link fence erected at the entrance to the park, with a red warning sign prominently displayed.

  HAZARDOUS MATERIALS! DO NOT ENTER!

  At 9:31 Saturday morning, members of the Los Angeles County Sherriff’s Crime Scene Unit completed the first phase of their investigation of 871 Feather Lane, Pack Canyon. Luminol procedure had revealed blood spatter and a footprint.

  Sheriff’s Homicide Detective Kathy Moss, just three hours after her return from Mississippi with a prisoner, confirmed that the size of the footprint matched the shoe size of one Theodore Gillespie.

  9:52 a.m.

  “You were gone,” her father said.

  “I had a little business to attend to,” Rocky said.

  “Working?”

  “Actually working.”

  “Getting paid?”

  “You always know the right thing to say.”

  His face clenched. At least he was in his own house now. His neighbor, a woman named Jesse, had been checking in on him.

  “I don’t know anything,” her father said.

  Rocky said nothing. She had the urge to hold his hand. She didn’t, though. She didn’t know if he wanted her to.

  “I need to tell you something,” he said. “Before I die.”

  Rocky wanted to cry out. Do not die, no, not before we make things right, not before we have one last chance. But she thought words like that might pierce the thin tissue of connection he was obviously trying to make.

  They sat in silence for a long moment. He was on the sofa, propped against pillows, looking gaunt. His pipes were in their carousel, looking cold. The tobacco smell in the house was stale.

  Finally, he said, “I’m afraid of it.”

  “Of what?” Rocky said.

  “Dying.”

  It was the first vulnerable thing he had ever said to her that Rocky could remember. A hairline crack in the hard-shell enclosure of his emotions. She could hardly speak, then heard herself using the old name. “Daddy,” she said, “you’re not going to die. Not yet.”

  “I have to say something.” His face held torment. Rocky thought he must be suffering discomfort of some kind. Or, please, no, not another stroke.

  “What is it?” Rocky said. “Can I get you something?”

  “Listen to me.”

  Rocky leaned forward.

  “If I don’t say this, I might go to purgatory or something.”

  Purgatory? Where had that come from? He wasn’t a religious man.

  “I don’t know what’s out there,” he said. “I’m afraid of it. But I have to try to say this. I have to try . . .” He looked straight at her then. His eyes were damp.

  “Go ahead, Pop. I’ll listen.”

  Another long, leaden moment passed. Rocky felt a sudden loss of breath, as if she had to expend all her strength to keep the channel with her father open. Or else the door would slam shut too soon.

  Then her father said, “I didn’t fix the fence.”

  “Fence?”

  He took a deep breath. “The dog got through. The dog. I knew he could get into the yard. I didn’t fix the fence. I didn’t . . .”

  And then he was full-on crying. An old man, aging before her eyes, face wet, voice weak.

  The dog. The dog that had mauled her.

  It was clear to her in that moment that this was his plea for absolution. He had carried the guilt of her scars all these many years. He had hidden behind a rock wall of denial and, at times, neglect. It was why he had not wanted to be with her. It was why he had withheld his love.

 
It was both a shock and relief. To finally know why he had treated her the way he had. And it was devastating, too, all the lost years. She saw instantly how bitter she really was about it. Now here was his confession. And she could choose to give him what he asked for or leave him to die in his remorse.

  She went to him, put her arm over his bony body, and rested her head on top of his. She let him cry it out, and by the time he was finished, she found she was embracing him, and he was letting her.

  She took his hand. His grip was firm, as if holding onto life itself.

  They stayed that way for a long time. His breathing normalized. Then he said, “Do you still sing?”

  “Yes, Daddy. In fact, I do.”

  He nodded, like he was trying to remember something. “You did when you were little. You liked to. I remember that.”

  “I still like to.”

  “Would you sing something for me?”

  “What, now?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  She swallowed. Her throat was dry. She was amazed he was asking this. “What . . . do you want me to sing?”

  “Anything.”

  “ ‘Anything Goes?’ ”

  He smiled then. “That’s a good old song. You know it?”

  “I can give it a try.”

  “Please try,” he said.

  Softly, Rocky sang.

  10:57 a.m.

  “I just acted,” Mac said. “I just jumped. It was the wrong thing to do.

  I should’ve kept talking to her.”

  “You haven’t got a whole lot of time to consider your options when somebody has a gun to her head,” Pastor Jon said.

  They were sitting in front of Mac’s place. The sun felt good on Mac’s back. The events of the last three days had left him feeling cold inside. As if a dark, cool void had taken permanent residence in his chest.

  Now, warmed by the sun and his pastor, the cold was slowly melting away.

  But not all of it. There was still Liz.

  “She went away right before my eyes,” Mac said. “Like there was a place inside her brain where she was going to take up residence. Not exactly like being in a coma, but close.”

  Jon nodded, steepling his fingers. “This is a spiritual battle, first to last,” he said. “I have a friend, a guy I went to seminary with, who is a psychiatrist now. Ray Vickers. I’d like him to come see Liz. He recognizes the spiritual. He’s kind of a rebel that way, in his profession. He has a theory he calls ‘sin dissociation.’ ”

  “Sounds heavy.”

  “He explained it to me once. Sin’s real, even if you don’t believe in it. And it affects the mind. If you ignore it, you dissociate, you try to compartmentalize it. But the guilt seeps through, and if you don’t turn it over to God, it will turn on you.”

  “How?”

  “If it’s bad enough, it makes you paranoid, for one thing. Full-on mental illness in extreme cases. It can result in conduct you try to justify in your own mind. You begin to think anything you do is all right, that you’re entitled. So if you get caught, you withdraw. Into your own little world, so you can still be in control.”

  Mac thought about it, about Liz’s almost lifeless eyes. “I have to see her,” he said. “I have to let her know I’m here.”

  Monday

  10:39 a.m.

  Tito Sanchez was almost laughing over the phone. “They’ve suspended Gordon Slezak immediately, pending review.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” Mac said.

  “Not me,” Sanchez said. “I’m the most serious guy in the world. But this has me, I don’t know, just laughing.”

  “I’m glad I could brighten your day.”

  “That girl, what’s her name?”

  “Rocky. Roxanne.”

  “Rocky Roxanne?”

  “Just Rocky.”

  “She’s awesome, what she did. She could be up for an Oscar for best documentary. I e-mailed the video straight to the Department of Corrections’ oversight office. They called me back in an hour. They pleaded with me not to release it to the news. I think that might not be a bad idea, to get — ”

  “No,” Mac said. “I don’t want you to. Let them handle it. The guy’s going to suffer enough.”

  “But this is the way it’s done now,” Sanchez said.

  “It’s not the way I want it done. Are we clear?”

  “Okay. You’re the client. Speaking of which, the child-custody papers. I filed them on Friday.”

  Mac said nothing. He felt nothing.

  “You okay with that?” Sanchez said.

  “I’ll let you know,” Mac said.

  When he clicked off, Mac sat for a long time, looking at the wall.

  11:02 a.m.

  “You’re welcome to stay, you know,” Geena said.

  Rocky kissed her cheek. “I know. But it’s time to get back to my own place.”

  “What about Boyd?”

  “I’m not afraid of Boyd. I don’t even think he’ll come around.”

  “And if he does?”

  “I’ll take care of it then.”

  “Maybe your boyfriend can throw him out on the street again.”

  “Geena . . .”

  Geena smiled. “Come on. You hauled in a criminal together. He’s just right for you, he’s — ”

  “Stop. Okay? Just stop. And don’t vibrate about it. Don’t visualize or verbalize or any other kind of -ize. Just leave it alone.”

  “There are some things you can’t control,” Geena said. “Some things just happen.”

  1:28 p.m.

  Mac sat across from Liz, looking at her through the visiting-room glass at the Century Regional Detention Facility in Lynwood. Her eyes were empty. Vacant.

  Or maybe looking at something so far away that only she could see. She was in a jail-issue, neon orange jumpsuit. Her hair was stringy.

  “I came to see how you’re doing,” Mac said.

  Liz took a breath. “You look weird,” she said.

  Mac smiled, trying to reassure her. “But how are you?”

  “There’s fire.”

  “What?”

  “Fire.”

  “Where?”

  “All around. It’s in the trees and the birds.”

  Gripping the handset, Mac prayed silently and said, “Liz, I want to say something to you, okay?”

  “It’s in the rocks.”

  “Liz, just listen.”

  Her eyes met his.

  “Do you remember being baptized?”

  She said nothing.

  “Do you remember saying you wanted it?” Mac said.

  Silence.

  “You can call on the name of Jesus, Liz.”

  A low candle flame flickered in her eyes. “It’s too late,” she said.

  “No, it is never too late.”

  “Arty knows. He knows what I did.”

  “Arty forgives you.”

  She shook her head. “It’s too late. You can’t go back. You are what you are. Never change. Can’t.”

  “No,” Mac said. “You can choose, right now. You can choose — ”

  “Too late!”

  Liz screamed. Her face twisted. She threw the handset at the Plexiglas and stood up, defensive, as if Mac was going to bust through and grab her.

  Two female deputies rushed over, and that was that. They dragged Liz, literally kicking and screaming, from the visiting room.

  Just before she disappeared through the door, she caught Mac’s eyes once more.

  They were wide with a kind of fear that reminded him of something.

  Then he knew what it was. It was like that Iraqi kid soldier who had screamed I love you! as the Marines tied him up.

  4:29 p.m.

  “Bedford – Mulrooney.”

  “May I speak to Athena, please?”

  “Who’s calling please?”

  “Mac.”

  “May I tell her what this is regarding?”

  “Aurora.”

  Pause. �
��One moment.”

  Classical music. Then: “Mac, I’m not supposed to talk to you. My lawyer said — ”

  “You won’t need the lawyer.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not going through with it.”

  “Do you mean that?” Athena said.

  “I don’t want Aurora to be in the middle of a war.”

  “Mac, I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I know she doesn’t even know who I am.”

  Athena was silent.

  “Is Tony a good father?” Mac said.

  “He’s a very good father,” Athena said.

  Mac took a long, deep breath. He closed his eyes.

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  “I believe you,” Athena said. “I really, really do.”

  7:31 p.m.

  “This is strange,” Mac said.

  “What is?” Rocky said.

  “Not feeling afraid that somebody could show up at any time and try to knock my head off. They haven’t given me a new PO yet. I almost don’t know what to do.”

  Rocky smiled and almost said the same thing. She and Mac sat with feet up on the outside deck of the Canyon Grind. The evening was warm, only a hint of a breeze through the mountains.

  The lights of the city were spread out as usual, way down below. They still comforted Rocky, still offered up a hopefulness that once she had only pretended to believe in.

  “Are you going to see Liz again?” she said.

  “If she’ll let me,” Mac said. “They put her on suicide watch.”

  Rocky shook her head. “I should hate her.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “What’s going on in her head must be pretty bad.”

  “It is.”

  “Insanity defense, you think?”

  “No doubt.”

  He reached over and took her hand. That surprised her. She saw his face in the light of the table candle.

  He said, “You did good.”

  “Lucky, I guess.”

  Mac shook his head. “The insurance company for the stones, they’re going to love you. They’re not going to think it’s luck.”

  “I might pick up a file or two out of it.”

  “Maybe you’ll need some help,” he said.

  “You looking for work?”

  “Anything to keep me in crocuses.”