Your Son Is Alive

by James Scott Bell

  He took a sip of wine and nodded approvingly.

  “You’re going to live a good long time,” he said. “We are going to be very happy together. It will take several years, but it will happen. I know how to make it happen. The good news for you is that I have a tender side, and I’m changing up my plans just a bit. I was going to have you watch something, but now I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  He paused and looked at her as if waiting for her to talk.

  She didn’t.

  “Don’t you want to know what I’m referring to?”

  She kept her head still.

  “In just a little while your ex-husband is going to know that his own son is still alive and that his dear boy is going to be the one to kill him. After that, I’ll bring his body here for you to see. And then I’ll put Jimmy out of his misery so you and I have only each other. The circle will be complete.”

  That did it. With what was left of her strength she swept her free hand across the table and knocked the salad to the floor. A guttural animal sound issued from her as she pulled against the cuff on her left wrist.

  Petrie stood, setting his wine glass on the table. “That’s good, Erin. You need to get it all out. That’s part of the healing. Your reclamation will be a wonderful thing, trust me.”

  With a force he had not shown to this point, he grabbed her arm and put the cuff back on her wrist.

  “You just have to,” he said. “You really don’t have a choice.”

  He went behind her. “Now, since you’ve turned down one of the great eating experiences, I’m going to make it up to you. I should be back just about the time it ends. Enjoy!”

  The lights went out. The sound of a projector started up. The big, white wall lit up.

  Carl Laemmle

  presents

  Victor Hugo’s Classic

  The Hunchback of Notre Dame

  with

  Lon Chaney

  A Universal Production

  “No, no!” Erin said. “Turn it off!”

  A door slammed closed.

  98

  Sitting in the back of the car, mouth duct taped and hands zip-tied behind him, Dylan could only look with astonishment at the woman he was supposed to have murdered.

  She was sitting next to him, holding the gun, and smiling in a warm and understanding way. Which made the whole thing all the more bizarre.

  “I know, dear,” she said. “I’m going to tell you.”

  “Why?” Carbona said, driving into the desert night. Dylan was certain they were on Pearblossom Highway, the strip of two-lane blacktop that traverses miles of Joshua trees, jackrabbits, and desolation.

  Nothing good happened out here.

  Except it was a good place to dispose of a body.

  “He deserves it,” Tabitha said.

  “There’s no point,” Carbona said.

  “I can’t stand to think he’ll never know, even it’s just for a little while.”

  “Make it short,” Carbona said.

  In a soft, almost loving voice she said to Dylan, “I really liked you, you know. From way back. But you were way out of my league. At the time, at least.”

  What was she talking about?

  “High school,” she said. “Remember Physics Club? T. J. Petrie, Derek Leake, Jerrod Forman, and me?”

  Her? No. It was Terri. Terri Boyce.

  “Yep, it’s me,” she said. “Terri.”

  She looked nothing like Terri.

  “I had a little makeover,” she said with seeming pride. “Pretty good, isn’t it?”

  If it was true, it was masterful. The Terri Boyce he knew in high school was skinny, had dark hair, and frankly didn’t seem to care what she looked like. Tabitha Mullaney was fully figured and coiffed. From what he could remember, the voice was different, too. Terri’s had been high pitched. Tabitha’s was deeper and more modulated.

  “You probably don’t remember this,” she said, “being Mr. Football and all, but I once asked you to the vice versa dance. I called you. I was almost wetting my pants I was so nervous. You said you already’d been asked. Then I found out Erin Peterson asked you the next day. That hurt, my friend. That hurt.”

  It came back. Her trembling voice on the phone. His little deception.

  “I missed a week of school,” she said. “I was so sick. But you know what? You actually did me a favor. Yeah, you did. That was the week I made the decision to grow strong. It changed my life, actually.”

  “Really?” Carbona said.

  “Absolutely,” Tabitha-Terri said. “You like the product?”

  “I like it,” Carbona said.

  She said, “So T. J. and I kept in touch, and when it came time to make some real money, when ice was hot so to speak, we were a good team.”

  “Better when I came along,” Carbona said.

  “In lots of ways,” Terri said with a lilt. To Dylan she said, “So I would have probably gotten to you for free, but T. J. is paying us both in big, non-traceable dollars. And we’re going to go away for a long time. Arent’ we, hon?”

  “You bet,” Carbona said. “Where there’s nice beaches and no questions.”

  Terri said, “You’re probably wondering about the woman the police found dead.”

  “You don’t have to go into that,” Carbona said.

  “But I do,” Terri said. “He’s got to be thinking about that. And I want him to know how good we are.”

  “He won’t be thinking about anything soon enough.”

  “Then let me finish,” she said.

  99

  Erin only looked at the wall when she couldn’t stand keeping her eyes closed any longer.

  She did that now, and the movie was showing a scene where the hunchback—the poor, deformed innocent—was being whipped as he was chained to platform that rotated slowly, round and round in the public square.

  The people of the streets of Paris laughing and mocking him.

  Why did they make this movie anyway? Why did Victor Hugo write it? She’d never read the novel, and was only passing familiar with the story. The hunchback rang the bells at Notre Dame cathedral, and through some misunderstanding or other gets this flogging. He calls out for water and a beautiful gypsy named Esmeralda gives it to him. And then everybody dies.

  Or something cheery like that.

  Erin did not need the novel or movie to teach her about the capacity for humans to do evil.

  She tried pushing against the theater seats again. But her strength was almost completely gone. Her arms were numb.

  A public flogging would be preferable to this. Because then she would be let go.

  And could save Dylan.

  Oh, Dylan.

  100

  “Her name really is, or I guess I should say was, Tabitha Mullaney,” Terri Boyce said. “Lonely woman. That’s why T. J. picked her. He likes his playthings. He likes the ones that won’t be missed. Unless it’s Erin, of course.”

  Dylan made a sound that ran up against the duct tape and died.

  “Easy there,” Carbona said.

  “He’s all right,” Terri said. “So it was a perfect set up for me to get to you, and for you to get into trouble, and for us to accelerate the rate of change. Remember your physics? The rate of change is directly proportional to the amount of force applied, right? Oh, right. You were too busy chasing footballs and cheerleaders.”

  Carbona made a turn off the highway onto a dirt road. Dylan followed the beam of the headlights illuminating sagebrush and sand before dying in a distant darkness.

  “It’s almost over,” Terri said. “You’re going to see your son.”

  “That’s enough,” Carbona said. “T. J. wants to explain it.”

  The zip ties were cutting into Dylan’s wrists.

  “I just wanted him to know,” Terri said. “In these last few minutes, I just wanted him to know.”

  They drove in silence for what seemed like ten minutes, Dylan trying to keep his heart in his chest.

/>   Then the car made another turn.

  After a series of bumps Dylan saw ahead what was waiting for him.

  A pickup truck.

  And someone standing outside it. Average height, wearing a hoodie. Another person was inside behind the wheel.

  The car slowed. Gravel crunched.

  The car stopped.

  Carbona got out and walked over to the guy outside the truck.

  “What we could’ve been,” Terri Boyce said, as if she meant to comfort him.

  Dylan tried to burn a hole in her with his eyes.

  She looked away.

  With his hands behind him there was no way he could take the gun from her.

  His moment was going to come. It had to.

  Carbona returned and opened the rear door. He unbuckled Dylan’s seatbelt, then grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him out. He walked him like a string puppet into the pool of light provided by the sedan, midway between the car and the pickup.

  And shoved Dylan down.

  Rocks bit into his knees.

  Hoodie walked over and stood in front of him. Then reached down and ripped the duct tape off Dylan’s mouth.

  “Hello, Dylan,” Hoodie said.

  “Weezer,” Dylan said.

  “Nice homework,” Petrie said. He got down on one knee so he was face-to-face with Dylan. “I’m impressed. Really. Not as impressed as you’re going to be with me. But I want you to know your ex-wife is fine. She’s going to be well taken care of. I guarantee it. For years and years and years.”

  Dylan wondered if he could get one, clear bite on Petrie’s neck. It was animal time.

  “Did you ever see a movie called The Great Moment?” Petrie said. “It was written and directed by Preston Sturges, the guy who did classics like Sullivan’s Travels and The Lady Eve. Did you ever see those, Dylan?”

  The headlights from the car made half of Petrie’s face a shadow.

  “Those were screwball comedies,” Petrie said. “But The Great Moment was a more serious film, about the dentist who discovered that ether could be used as an anesthetic. What a great moment that was for anybody who needed a tooth pulled, huh? To take away pain like that? Well, this is my great moment, Dylan. Except I’m going to give pain. You’re going to see your son again. He’s sitting there in the truck, just waiting for his great moment with you. And then he’s going to kill you, Dylan. Pow, right to the head. Your own son. You’ve got to love that. And then I’ll have Erin all to myself, and the things we’ll do together!”

  Petrie smiled at him, like he was expecting Dylan to wail or plead. But in his head right then Dylan heard the gentle rushing of a stream, and saw a picture, of himself, transported back to the one time he took Kyle fishing, showed him how to bait a hook and how to be patient, and they didn’t catch a single fish but it was a perfect time, both of them happy, warm in a moment. That he should be thinking of that now was, Dylan realized with obvious irony, like the ether this scumbag just talked about. A memory given to him to anesthetize his soul. Given to him by whom? By the five-year-old Kyle, somehow. The real Kyle. The only Kyle.

  “You lie,” Dylan said. His body felt light.

  “Oh no, my lad.”

  “All lies,” Dylan said. “That’s not my son.”

  “Let’s go,” Carbona said from behind.

  Petrie punched Dylan in the face. Knuckles dug deep into his cheek.

  Dylan put poison in his smile. “Loser,” he said.

  Petrie hit him on the other side of the face.

  Dylan fell sideways, his head thudding on the sand. But there was no pain, none at all, and he heard the soft rush of the stream, and saw Kyle’s hands on the fishing pole.

  He heard Carbona say, “Hurry it up.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Petrie said.

  “Such a liar,” Dylan said.

  “Give me the gun,” Petrie said.

  “That’s not part of it,” Carbona said.

  “I’m gonna shoot his knee,” Petrie said. “He has to focus.”

  “Make it quick, will you?”

  “Not too quick,” Petrie said.

  Dylan, in a bound and fetal position, saw movement of legs and assumed Petrie was being handed a gun. He prepared for the shot.

  He saw young Kyle in his mind, holding the pole like Huck Finn.

  We’ll be together, son. Somehow. Somewhere.

  Dylan heard a crack, a distant snap in the night.

  Petrie fell, screaming, a wail of pain and something more, something deep and primal, like a man falling into a pit and knowing it had no bottom.

  Another crack, and the sound of pinging off metal.

  Then feet running on scrappy ground, the sound of the pickup truck starting, the grind of tires on gravel, another starting, roar of engine.

  Light receding, and Petrie in the dirt in front of Dylan, writhing.

  The gun lying on the ground near Petrie.

  Dylan got to his knees, then his feet.

  He kicked the gun.

  Petrie, grunting now, started to crawl.

  With the last of the light Dylan calculated where Petrie’s head was and kicked it like a soccer ball.

  A soccer ball made of bone. Dylan’s foot exploded with hot pain.

  Petrie stopped moving.

  But why did he fall in the first place, like he’d been shot?

  The answer came roaring up a minute later. An off-road job. Maybe a Jeep. No headlights.

  It skidded to a stop.

  Somebody got out. In the darkness Dylan saw only a gray shadow.

  The shadow came to him. It had an alien face, with eyes bulging out.

  No, they were goggles.

  A hand flipped them up.

  101

  Gadge Garner said, “You okay?”

  He had a rifle with a scope in his left hand.

  All Dylan could say was, “How?”

  “We have to move fast,” Garner said.

  Garner took something off his belt. A flashlight. He put the beam on Petrie’s inert body.

  “I kicked him in the head,” Dylan said.

  “Good,” Garner said. “Goes with the wound to the articulation of the shoulder joint.”

  “How do you know that?” Dylan said.

  “Because that’s where I shot him,” Garner said.

  “You meant to hit him there?”

  “You kidding? Of course. We need him.”

  Garner put the rifle on the ground and took a knife off his belt and cut the zip ties on Dylan’s wrists. Dylan brought his hands in front of him with sweet relief, and rubbed the burn marks on his wrists.

  Garner said, “Let’s patch him up.”

  Within two minutes Garner had illuminated an LED lantern, retrieved a first-aid kit, and put a quick but solid dressing on the unconscious Petrie’s wound.

  In thirty more seconds he had Petrie’s hands secured behind his back with metal handcuffs.

  “Help me get him in the back,” Garner said.

  With Petrie in place in the Jeep, Gadge Garner added a gag made of red cloth.

  Then Garner went over to the handgun Petrie had held. Using his knife, he lifted it by the trigger guard and dropped it into a plastic bag he’d pulled from his pocket. Then he swept up the lantern and ordered Dylan into the Jeep and told him to strap himself in.

  As the Jeep made its bumpy way toward the highway, Dylan said, “Where we going?”

  “Our friend here owns a movie theater,” Gadge Garner said. “Found it through a real estate database. It’s one of those old, restored jobs. May be where Erin is, or where those other guys are heading. Or both.”

  “But how did you find me?”

  “Tracked you. GPS.”

  “But they found it. At the 7-Eleven. It was in the knife you gave me, which you didn’t tell me had tracking, by the way.”

  “When I put the knife in your sock I pinned another tracker to the inside of your pants.”

  “What?”

  “Mis
direction. I figured they pat you down and they might find the knife in the same location. They take out the knife because they felt it, leaving the other tracker in place.”

  Dylan reached down and patted his pant leg near the ankle.

  “It’s on the inside,” Garner said.

  Dylan felt it. A small disk of some kind, held there by a simple pin.

  “And you knew that was going to work?” Dylan said.

  “Maybe eighty-five percent, which is a go for me in these situations,” Garner said.

  “But where were you?”

  “About two hundred yards behind. No headlights. Night vision. When they stopped I had to hoof it to a good spot. When they gave Petrie a gun, I had to shoot.”

  “He said the guy in the truck was Kyle. That he was going to shoot me.”

  “I doubt it,” Garner said.

  “That he’d shoot me?”

  “That it was really your son.”

  They made it to the highway and headed west. Gadge Garner took up a radio handset and pressed a button. “Fish Fry One, Fish Fry One this is Garner’s World, come in. Over.”

  A voice came through the speaker, “Garner’s World, this is Fish Fry One. Go ahead. Over.”

  “Two plates, emergency pursuit. Attempted murder. Armed and dangerous. Hold for questioning. Are you ready? Over.”

  “Go ahead, Garner’s World.”

  Gadge Garner gave out two license plate designations and described the vehicles. That he had done all this in the dark of night was more than amazing. Dylan allowed himself to believe the amazement would continue.

  To Erin.

  Garner said, “Send a car to the Bijou movie house on Market. Have reason to believe hostage situation. Over.”

  “Roger that,” the voice said.

  “Over and out.” Garner replaced the handset. “Connection at the Sheriff’s Department,” he said. “They’ll notify CHP, too. We’ll need some luck.”

  “How about a miracle?” Dylan said.