Your Son Is Alive

by James Scott Bell

  Erin stared at the bagged card in the detective’s hand. “I … no …”

  “Here’s what I’m dealing with,” Detective Murray said. “Your husband is arrested for murder, there’s a murder this morning. The connection is you. This victim has a business card with your ex-husband’s name on it. You were told to come to this location to receive a call on a pay phone. You are withholding some information from me. There’s a picture here that isn’t complete. I believe you’re the only one who can complete it.”

  Erin was seeing a picture, too, only it wasn’t merely incomplete. It was a funhouse nightmare. Everything was distorted and mad laughter echoed in the background.

  “Were you and your ex on good terms?” Detective Murray asked.

  “What? Yes. Of course. Wait. What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  “Detective,” she said, “Dylan would never, ever kill someone.”

  “Let me remind you, he’s been arrested for doing just that.”

  She shook her head. “There’s got to be some other explanation.”

  “Ms. Reeve, that’s often what a wife says.”

  Emotional exhaustion began to give way to anger. “You are not going to get anywhere with me by being nasty.”

  “I’m not trying to be, Ms. Reeve. I’m only—”

  “Oh, then it’s just your manner? Your way of conducting interviews?”

  “I try to be professional,” he said.

  “I think you need work,” she said. “Now am I finished here?”

  “You certainly can be,” Detective Murray said. “But I’ll need to follow up. What would be the best time to contact you?”

  Erin stood.

  “Sixteen years ago,” she said.

  51

  They loaded Dylan on a Sheriff’s bus, along with five others from the Van Nuys jail. They said he was being shipped to the jail facility in Castaic. It might as well have been the surface of Mars.

  All Dylan knew about Castaic was that it was through the pass that connects the civilization of Los Angeles to the desert and jack rabbits of whatever was past Magic Mountain in Valencia. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out that far on the 5. He pictured tumbleweeds and dried cow skulls.

  And the razor wire of a prison.

  Which is exactly what he was, a prisoner. For a murder he had not committed. For a murder that he was set up for.

  In what possible universe could this be happening?

  He thought of the movie The Fugitive with Harrison Ford. One of his favorite movies of all time, in fact. In further fact, he and Erin went to see it before they were married, at a revival theater that charged only one dollar per ticket. In the movie things worked out for Harrison Ford. Tommy Lee Jones, who said he didn’t care, turned out to care a lot. And Harrison Ford, against all odds, kept alive on the streets, avoiding the clutches of Jones’s crack team of trackers—long enough to find the real murderer.

  But that was a movie. This was real life.

  And Dylan did not feel like Harrison Ford.

  He looked out the barred window of the bus, at the cars passing on the freeway. From the back of a Hyundai, a little boy looked up at the bus, mouth slightly open in wonderment.

  A little boy about Kyle’s age when he was taken.

  Get a good look, son. The world isn’t the playground you think it is. I hope you make it in life.

  The boy’s eyes met his for an instant, then the child turned his head away.

  The Hyundai drove on, seeming to take with it his last view of normalcy.

  How could he fight this? A man crushes your face and lies, but has an impeccable record as a cop. What a perfect profile for a false witness. Had he been the one to kill Tabitha? If so, why?

  Would Sam Wyant be able to find anything out? Dylan wondered just how strongly the lawyer believed him. Oh, he’d give Dylan every benefit of the doubt, but benefits eventually dry up and doubts have a way of calcifying.

  And speaking of drying up, Dylan would have to do something about his practice. And Paige.

  He had a friend who could probably take a few of his regulars, but how long could that last? There were a thousand-and-one practical things that needed taking care of. Feeding his goldfish. Making sure his bills were paid. Keeping an eye on the security of the house.

  He suddenly felt like the bus was one-tenth its actual size. He was inside a metal tube, constricted, looking through the grate that separated two deputies from the prisoners, of which he was one.

  “There’s too many of them.”

  The phrase flashed through his mind. It was something Kyle had said, right before his first T-ball at bat.

  That day Kyle was nervous. Dylan had to talk him into showing up for the game. T-ball practice had demonstrated that Kyle’s skills were not yet as developed as some of the other kids. It took ten minutes of cajoling, but Kyle finally announced he was ready, and put on a brave face.

  But when he got to the field and saw the other team warming up, he squeezed Dylan’s hand harder.

  And when it came time for him to take his first official T-ball swing, Dylan was standing right behind the fenced dugout clapping his hands. As Kyle walked by, he looked out to the field and back to his father and said, “There’s too many of them.”

  Dylan said, “Just hit the ball and run as fast as you can.”

  If Kyle’s face was any indication, Dylan’s advice was as effective as a car horn in rush-hour traffic.

  But then the miracle happened. Somehow everything came together in Kyle’s swing—force, contact, follow-through—and he smacked the ball up the middle, past second base and into the outfield.

  And stood there, watching the ball with a sense of wonder.

  Dylan, along with the coaches and other parent spectators, screamed, “Run!”

  Which is exactly what Kyle did. He ran. He ran faster than Dylan never seen him run.

  Directly to third base.

  With the cries of coaches overlapping howls from the stands, Kyle stood on the third-base bag and looked around, wondering what all the commotion was. Finally the boy playing short fielder threw the ball to the second baseman, who seemed to know what he was doing, for he ran all the way to first base and put his foot on the bag.

  Then laughter from the stands, and Dylan saw the moment when Kyle realized it was aimed at him. When an umpire told Kyle return to his bench, he walked fast, head down. A couple of his teammates patted him on the back, but at least one appeared to say something nasty.

  Kyle sat heavily on the bench. Dylan could see his shoulders quivering.

  After the game, Dylan told Erin he wanted to take Kyle out for ice cream—alone. Erin understood. It was one of those times for a man-to-son talk.

  And at 31 Flavors, over a cup of Rocky Road, Dylan told Kyle how proud he was of him. “There were too many of them, you said, but you hit the ball anyway, and you hit it hard, and you ran, just like I told you.”

  “But I ran the wrong way,” Kyle said.

  “A lot of us run the wrong way sometimes,” Dylan said. “Even grownups like me.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure we do. I’m not talking about baseball. I’m talking about things we do in life. They’re called mistakes. But the main thing is that you take your swings. You try, and you run, no matter how many there are out there who want to stop you. That’s something you can learn today and keep for the rest of your life. Just keep taking your swings.”

  “You mean T-ball?”

  “Yes. And when you’re a little older, I’ll tell this to you again about other things in your life. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  But of course, he never got the chance to tell his son those things again.

  And now, here on the bus, there were too many of them. Detectives and deputy sheriffs and an ex-cop trying to put him away and to tear him apart inside.

  But then he could almost hear Kyle’s child-voice, giving his own advi
ce back to him.

  “Take your swings, and run as fast as you can.”

  52

  “You the bone cracker.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Chiropractor,” Dylan said.

  “For the Lakers, right?”

  The phrase news travels fast came fast to Dylan’s mind. It was the day after his first night in the North County Correctional Facility, a sleepless one in the dorm-style cattle room housing other blue-outfitted jailbirds.

  Now he was seated at a table with a tray of what they euphemistically referred to as lunch. And this other inmate had decided to join him.

  He was thin with slicked-back black hair and dark tats on his neck. One of the tats was in script, something in Spanish. The one word Dylan recognized was vida. Life.

  The guy was probably around forty years old but the eyes looked older. There were deep-rutted crow’s feet at the corners.

  “So how come my sister’s back keeps goin’ out and she keeps goin’ to the bone cracker. How come she don’t get better?”

  A professional consultation in jail? Dylan almost felt relieved. “Every case is different.”

  “Just like in here, huh?”

  Dylan looked down at his food. It consisted of a yellowish glop that resembled mac and cheese, apple slices with browning edges, and a black square that he supposed was some sort of brownie.

  His uninvited guest said, “You kill your woman?”

  Dylan closed his eyes, trying to wish the guy away.

  “Got no secrets here,” the guy said. “You do it?”

  “No,” Dylan said.

  “Look me in the eye, tell me you didn’t do it.”

  Now Dylan looked into the man’s eyes and was mildly surprised that he wasn’t intimidated.

  “Why?” Dylan said.

  “Cause I’m askin’.”

  “This some sort of jailhouse test?”

  “You don’t want no test. Not a pink fish like you. No, no, no, a test is what you don’t want.”

  “I want to be left alone.”

  “You pick the wrong place for that.” The man reached over and took Dylan’s brownie.

  And said, “Did you do it?”

  “No,” Dylan said. “I didn’t do it. Now give me back my brownie.”

  “What you say?”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Dylan said.

  Man, what was he doing? The guy had called him a pink fish, and he knew enough to know it meant easy pickings to the veterans of lockups and prisons and vomit-smelling police benches. He was as likely to get a plastic fork to the eye as he was to get his brownie back. But at that moment, Dylan Reeve did not care.

  Or, cared more than he had in fifteen years. Cared about pushing back against life, not letting it run over him like a tank with spiked treads. Not just lying there waiting for the next pass to crunch his guts again.

  And then the guy smiled. Nodded. He put the brownie back on Dylan’s tray.

  “I believe you,” he said. “And I don’t believe you.”

  Feeling an odd sense of elation at having his brownie back—his simple, stupid square of sugar and chemicals—Dylan said with added force, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I believe when you say you didn’t do it,” the guy said. “I can tell. I seen enough guys to know when they ain’t bein’ straight up.”

  “So what don’t you believe?”

  “That you ain’t afraid of me.”

  “So what’s that prove?” Dylan said.

  “Proves you got some cashews, man. Tellin’ me you ain’t afraid when you are. But that can get you jumped, you don’t watch out. Or got somebody watchin’ out for you.”

  Dylan said, “You’re offering to be my protection.”

  “You got it.”

  “In return for what?” Dylan said.

  “Your brownie,” the guy said with a smile.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I look like a clown to you?”

  “Just take it,” Dylan said.

  “And one more thing,” the guy said.

  Here it comes, Dylan thought. The jailhouse service that shall not be named. Or some other humiliating show of subservience. Here it comes, because you’re in a nightmare and aren’t going to be waking up anytime soon.

  But Dylan did summon the guts to look him in the eye again. He didn’t know what he’d do when the guy made his demand.. He wondered what it would be like to get in a fight. He’d probably end up losing teeth. Or half an ear.

  Then they guy said, “Can you get me an autographed picture of Jaquez Rollins?”

  Dylan Reeve started laughing. It came up like bubbling crude, a fierce and hysterical laughter that he knew was pure release, something his body demanded of him, and he didn’t fight it. He laughed like a crazy man and couldn’t stop, even though he felt the eyes of the other prisoners on him. Tears from the laughter—and the release—streamed down his cheeks. Dylan wiped his eyes and managed to say, “Yes, I can … get you … that picture.” And then he laughed some more. He laughed as he grabbed his brownie and put it on the guy’s tray.

  53

  Alone in her condo at noon on a Wednesday made Erin feel like she was sick.

  And maybe, in a very real sense, she was. Having a man’s head blown off when he’s about to grab you was not to be found under any heading marked Normal.

  Yumiko had been nice enough to cover for Erin for another day. But Erin could hear in Yumiko’s voice on the phone how anxious she was to know what was going on. Erin didn’t want to go into it, told Yumiko she’d come in tomorrow and they’d talk. It was exactly the wrong thing to say, for it fired up Yumiko’s determination to get Erin to spill all beans. Erin had to quickly thank her again and disconnect.

  She needed this silence.

  She wasn’t hungry. Her stomach felt like it was sloshing around in a bowl of grease. She finally decided to sip some chardonnay. A little wine for thy stomach, her mother had been fond of saying before taking her medicinal nip of sherry at night. Maybe Mom and the Bible knew whereof they spoke.

  Erin poured the wine and walked it to the living room. She sat on the sofa, took a deep breath, and a small sip. The chard was cool and crisp on her tongue. She tried to think of the time she and Dylan had gone to the Hollywood Bowl together a few weeks after they’d started dating. It was one of the great evenings of her life. Dylan had prepared the picnic himself—red grapes and Edam cheese to start, seared ahi tuna for the main, mini-cheesecakes for dessert.

  And a bottle of California chardonnay. It could have been a bottle of tap water, as far as Erin was concerned, because she was in love.

  But the memory wouldn’t stay. It was blasted out by the bloody remains of the man at the pay phone.

  And by a strange, incongruous image trying to assert itself—of Dylan Reeve, her Dylan, sitting in a jail cell accused of murder.

  It was time to find out more.

  She picked up her phone.

  “Dr. Reeve’s office.”

  “Paige? It’s Erin.”

  “Then you’ve heard.”

  “How on earth can this be happening?”

  It was an absurd question, because the same could be asked of her own situation. But she didn’t have time for her thoughts to catch up with her doubts or her inability to make sense of it all.

  “He has a lawyer,” Paige said. “He’s in jail now. I just can’t believe this.”

  “I can’t either,” Erin said. “There is no way Dylan would kill anyone.”

  “I was questioned by a detective. I didn’t like it one bit. But what I gather is it looks pretty bad.”

  “I want to go see him. Do you know where he is?”

  “No. They were supposed to take him to another jail. But I haven’t heard yet where.”

  “Will you call me as soon as you know anything?”

  “Of course.”

  Pause. Then Paige said, “Are you doing all right?”

  “Sometime I’ll f
ill you in,” Erin said. “Thanks for all your support for Dylan.”

  Erin went out to the balcony and sat in one of the chairs. The sun bleached North Hollywood and Studio City and the air was fairly clear for the Valley. Yet she found it hard to breathe deeply. Her chest was tight and her lungs were like fists.

  Her phone buzzed, no source number showing. But she knew it was him. She’d been expecting it. And was thinking maybe he would give up information that might help the LAPD track him down.

  She took the call but said nothing.

  His voice said, “Did you like what I did?”

  She remained silent.

  “I think you do. I know you do. You were standing right there. I shot him in the head. Do you know not many people could have made that shot?”

  Finally, she found voice. She kept it steady, hoping to draw him out. “Why did you do that? What are you trying to prove?”

  “I am trying to prove something. To you. I want you to see how good I am. I know that you teach your pathetic little students competency in irrelevant little matters like accounting and statistics. None of that means anything. Not in the grand scale. I am much more than that. So I want you to tell me just how good a shot I am.”

  “Why did you shoot him?”

  “I was protecting you.”

  “No. You set him up. You put my ex-husband’s card in his pocket, didn’t you?”

  “Well done! I am really happy that you think that. It just means I am so right about you.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Oh, but I do. And it’s all good.”

  “None of this is good,” Erin said.

  “What about your son? I am doing all this to prove to you that I can give you what you want.”

  “You want to torture me. You’re enjoying this.”

  “I tell you I am not. I want your respect. I don’t want you to be scared of me. In fact, I think it’s about time you and I met face-to-face.”

  “No,” Erin said. “Never.”

  “Never say never,” he said. “I am going to set it up.”