by Erik Carter
She adjusted her purse as she approached the building, and a familiar voice called out from behind.
“Hey, neighbor!”
Jane turned. It was Logan Winters, the boy next door in her apartment building. He wore a cap and gown, and he looked her over as he stepped up beside her. “You didn’t go to graduation?”
“Nah, I had to give John a ride. Not really my kind of thing anyway.”
“You busted your butt for four years. Might as well get some recognition for it,” he said with a smile.
Logan was a big, smiley, Midwestern type of guy with light hair, blue eyes, and a broad chest. Handsome in a round-cheeked kind of way. Gregarious, warm, and a bit loud.
They walked up the steps, and Logan punched the code into the lock. He held the door open for her, and they entered the building.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t I take you out for a drink some time this week.”
“I don’t know…”
“Look, it’s great what you do for your brother. Wonderful. But you can’t spend every free moment you have watching over him.”
They stopped at her door.
Logan smiled, anxiously awaiting her answer. There was a childlike quality to him that was ridiculously endearing.
“Maybe…” she said.
He gave her a finger gun and a wink then stepped over to his own apartment door.
Jane smiled, shook her head, and unlocked the door.
Inside, she dropped the keys in the basket on the small table by the door. Her apartment was of typical college size and refinement. But whereas many college apartments were covered by posters featuring beer cans or half-naked people, her and John’s apartment was decorated with altogether different posters. There were some from each twin’s tastes. John’s featured historical events and images of intrepid journalists. Jane’s posters were all from the movie Wizard of Oz. Her favorite. It was wish-fulfillment for her. The fantasy of getting somewhere far, far away from the criminal world of her father.
She walked across the apartment to the kitchen and reached into the fridge for some orange juice. There was a knock at the door.
She smiled again. The guy sure was persistent.
She heard the door open and looked up. In walked Danny, her older brother. For a moment, Jane was so stunned—and frightened—that she couldn’t form words.
“Danny? How did you get in this building?”
“People are surprisingly trusting around here,” he said.
That voice. Nasally, grating, and wicked.
It had been since high school graduation that she’d seen him, and if it were possible, he’d gotten even uglier—a few extra wrinkles to go along with everything else. Scruffy, bright red hair. Dark eyes with dark rings beneath. Big ears. Sunken cheeks. Small, pointy teeth.
Jane stammered. “Why are you here?”
“Can’t a guy visit his kid sister?” He looked left and right. “Where’s our brother?”
Jane paused. “He’s not here right now.”
A sneer came to Danny’s face. “You got him at a shrink appointment or something?” He snickered.
Then he walked toward her.
Jane inched toward the phone, on the wall by the refrigerator.
“Pop wants you back,” Danny said. “Both of you. Back in the family.”
Jane shook her head. “We’re never going back. We’ll never be part of your life.”
She was a couple feet from the phone.
Danny sucked in his chapped lips, moistened them. His eyes flicked to the phone and back to her. “No, sis, you got this all wrong. You have no choice in the matter.”
“The hell I don’t.”
She lunged for the phone, but Danny reached out and grabbed her arm. He yanked her back to the opposite side of the kitchen, threw her against the wall. His fingers dug into her forearm with such pressure that it made her eyes tear up, and he pushed in close to her.
She remembered when he had bullied her as a kid and how on more than one occasion he’d grabbed her breasts once they began to develop. She felt the same revulsion to him now, and though she hadn’t been near him in years, she felt like she had seen his disgusting face—so close to hers now—only yesterday.
“Let go of me, Danny. You’re hurting me.”
“You filled out nice, Janey.” His eyes roamed over her. “Pop let you have your fun, let you get your stupid degree, let you have a little taste of freedom. But now you’re coming back.”
Jane looked at the phone. Several feet away.
It was well out of arm’s reach.
So she screamed.
“Logan! Help! Logan!”
There had to be some benefit to living in an apartment with paper-thin walls.
Danny scowled at her, squinting, trying to figure out what she’d done.
A slamming noise from the other side of the apartment. Her door flew open. Logan rushed in. He was out of his gown, wearing a polo and jeans.
“Get your goddamn hands off her!”
Logan bounded over.
Danny released her arm, turned to Logan, and pulled back his suit jacket. He had a revolver in a shoulder holster. “Now just what do you think you’re gonna do here, big boy?”
Logan came to a stop. He looked to Jane and back to Danny. Then he continued toward them, stepped in between them.
“Get the hell out of here.”
“Brave,” Danny said with that sneer on his face again. He reached toward his gun...
And stopped. There had been a noise.
Another guy from the building—another neighbor—had entered the apartment. And another appeared in the doorway. And then a couple girls from two doors down.
Danny quickly threw his jacket back over the gun. He looked at Logan.
“All right, big boy,” he said and turned to Jane. “Pop’s not gonna like this. Not at all. I’ll see you soon, sis.”
He walked to the door and out of the apartment, shouting at the people who had gathered.
“Move your asses.”
He was gone.
Jane hadn’t noticed, but she now realized that she was shaking horribly, her whole body.
One of the neighbors called out to her. “You all right?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
Everyone left. Except for Logan. He turned to her.
“Logan…”
She went to his chest and let his large arms wrap around her. He was a good hugger, and his big muscles felt soft and warm, encircling her like a blanket.
He had been so good to her for so long and so patient with her constant denials. So she looked up at him. Smiled. And finally gave him a kiss. A small peck on the lips.
There was that childlike quality again. His face lit up like a boy who just found his most coveted gift waiting for him under the Christmas tree.
Then he looked at the doorway, and his expression grew darker. “If he ever comes back, I’ll—”
“It doesn’t matter if he comes back,” Jane said. “I’m leaving. As soon as John gets home, I’m getting us the hell out of here and never coming back. I was a fool to think I could stay in San Francisco. I’ll change our names, get us someplace safe.”
“Where?”
Jane looked at the posters on the wall in the living room. “Somewhere over the rainbow.”
Whereas Logan had looked like an overjoyed boy on Christmas morning only moments earlier, now he looked like a boy whose dog had just been run over. Cheeks sank, lips tightened. She even thought she noticed his eyes glistening a tad. He really did like her. The big goof.
“Well… Goodbye, Jane.”
He turned.
“Logan, wait.”
She grabbed his wrist, pulled him around. And kissed him.
A real kiss this time.
She put her fingers in his hair pulled his face in tight. Her lips moved over his, and she even gave him a little tongue.
Two years of patience. He’d earned it.
His hands went to her lower back and pulled her in tight. She felt her entire front side, all the right parts, squeezed against his strong body. Jane became excited, and she wanted Logan. And she realized she didn’t just want him in that moment. A whole wave of thoughts had flashed across her mind. A future with this brave and noble man, the most noble man she’d ever known aside from John, so different from her father and Danny and the other men in that world. A future with Logan. Her and Logan and John. And John’s other personalities.
But she knew she could never have that.
She pulled away from him.
“Goodbye, Logan.”
Logan looked at her. Hesitated. Then he nodded. Smiled. And left.
No, Jane could never have a life like that. So far, her short adult life had been dedicated to John—watching over him, providing for him, keeping him at a distance from her father. And now she had to turn things up a notch.
She and John had to disappear.
Chapter Twelve
Dale was trying to get his point across, but the cigarette smoke was so damn thick, he was having a hard time concentrating. He’d given Eliseo Delacruz several less-than-subtle looks, but the cigarette still rested in his fingers as he sat with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back in his chair, watching Dale semi-skeptically.
The two of them and Yorke were in the conference room on the third floor of the Hall of Justice that had been delegated to the task force hunting down the missing people from the Second Alcatraz. Orange plastic chairs on casters lined the table that spanned the length of the room, the surface of which was strewn with notepads and folders. They’d finished lunch—sandwiches from a local deli—and the empty boxes and bags sat among the case materials. A large fruit tray was in the middle of the table. The walls were plastered with a hodgepodge of information—charts, maps, photos, lists—and there were several rolling cork boards, including the one with images of the escapees that had been in Beau Lawton’s office. There had been two photos crossed by masking tape Xs and labeled as CAPTURED the last time Dale saw the board. Now there were three.
Dale stood at the head of the table, giving a quick briefing to Delacruz and Yorke about what he’d learned that morning. A small paper plate was in his hand, mounded with fruit. People liked to say that food tasted best when it was purchased with hard-earned money, but Dale contended that free food tasted even sweeter. That’s why he always mercilessly pillaged deli platters and complimentary cookies. He bit into a watermelon chunk, and almost spat it out. It had absorbed Delacruz’s cigarette smoke and tasted like a fruity ashtray. Blech.
The books, articles, and documents Dale had gathered earlier at the San Francisco Public Library were on the table. On the blackboard behind him, he’d written three notes:
478
Abe Ruef
Eugene Schmitz
“Felix has left us two messages about the Great 1906 San Francisco Earthquake, the latest one saying that 478 was a lie.” Dale tapped the digits he’d written on the blackboard. “478 was the official number of people who died in the earthquake. Now, the first message he left some eight months ago said, Tell the truth about the quake. Clearly Felix thinks he’s alerting people to misinformation about the disaster. But who would be in a position to lie?”
“Government?” Yorke said.
Dale pointed at her. “Exactly. So that’s where I started digging. Turns out San Francisco was completely corrupt at the time of the earthquake. The entire city was under the grip of Abe Ruef, a political boss. The mayor at the time, Eugene Schmitz, was just Ruef’s puppet.”
Delacruz blew out a puff of smoke. “But why would Ruef put out incorrect information about the quake?”
“There’s the million-dollar question. Beau Lawton gave me a name who might be able to shed some light.” Dale stepped to the table and rummaged through his notes, retrieved the slip of paper Lawton had given him. “Britta Eaton. She’s dying to get us historical info for the case. I need to talk to her and see—”
The door at the back of the conference room swung open. Beau Lawton flew in, looking harried. He stepped to the cork board with the photos of the escapees, pointed a finger at the images, then looked at Dale and Yorke, his eyes moving back-and-forth between them, quickly, rapidly.
“Which guy did you see? Who was Fair with?”
Yorke answered. “We couldn’t see shit. The guy’s face was blocked. And the video was grainy.”
Lawton breathed in, slowly exhaled, shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’re certain? We need something substantial, not this silly history research.”
Dale answered, being sure to restrain his frustration with being called silly. “I only speculated that the guy Fair was with was one of the other escapees. It could be anyone.”
Delacruz squashed his cigarette in an ashtray and faced Dale’s partner. “That’s one false start and one missed opportunity so far, Yorke. You have a covert history expert on your side now. Are you going to get some results at any point?”
Yorke started to answer, but had little to say. “Sir… I…”
Lawton took a step closer to Delacruz, and when he spoke, his tone was more mediating, less forceful than when he’d barged in. “Eliseo, Hanna is still my choice on this. And I trust her. Maybe we could talk outside?”
Delacruz looked from Lawton to Yorke. His eyes stayed on Yorke for a moment then he stood up, and the two men walked off.
Yorke watched them leave.
“I’m up shit creek, Conley.”
Dale pulled out a chair and sat beside her. He popped a grape in his mouth.
“I can help. But I gotta do a little more ‘silly history research.’” He tapped the note on the table. “I have to talk to Britta Eaton.”
He extended his plate toward her. She smiled, gave a small chuckle, and took a piece of pineapple.
She chewed the fruit and stared forward for a moment, eyes glazed, before she spoke. “It was a year ago.”
Dale sensed that she was finally going to open up. He knew that Yorke had made a dire mistake sometime in her recent past, but he also knew it was a delicate subject. So he hadn’t pressed her.
He set his plate down, turned to her attentively.
“A fugitive assignment. I misinterpreted a lead, went to get the guy. He wasn’t there. As I was trying to find him, he was on the other side of town, holding up a gas station. Things went south. He killed the clerk. And a customer.” She paused. “I really am a screwup.”
Dale didn’t know what to say. Law enforcement was, in many ways, like any other profession. Mistakes happened. And the story she’d told was about as big of a mistake as one could imagine. But if he were to say it, if he were to tell her, Mistakes happen, he knew it would have little impact. And it would seem trite. So he didn’t say a word.
Yorke bit her lip. “It’s my fault those two people died.”
Now Dale had to say something. “No, it—”
“Shut up, Conley.”
Dale shut up.
Yorke took another piece of pineapple from his plate, rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. “And now the only person who believes in me is Beau.”
She gestured to the hall.
“Were you two together when the incident happened?” Dale said.
She shook her head. “We’d been broken up for a while by that point. Would have been nice to have his support. Especially since I’d been such a doting girlfriend during his fiasco with Kimble.”
Dale grinned and tried to cut the tension a bit. “It’s hard to picture you as a ‘doting girlfriend.’”
She shrugged. “Well, I was.”
She leaned out of her seat and reached out to the nearest cork board, the one with the photos of the escapees. She untacked one of the photos, slid it toward Dale, and plopped back into her seat.
Dale looked at the picture. A mug shot, black-and-white like the others on the board. The man was average-looking, in his thirties. His hair was a bit curly, ears a bit large. Bo
th his nose and his cheeks were roundish. His eyes were desperate and confused.
“Lee Kimble,” she said. “He was an assistant district attorney.”
“Beau told me they were friends.”
She nodded. “They started at the office together as young ADAs, climbed the ranks. Then there was the Red Riding Hood case.”
“I remember this,” Dale said. “Some sort of pervert murderer.”
“Right. Kid-killer. Little girls. Oldest was thirteen. Youngest, five. Liked to taunt the cops. Wore a bright red sweatshirt. The DA’s office was heavily involved—lots of suspects, lots of warrants. Then the cops got a tip. About Kimble. Found the sweatshirts in his apartment. And panties.”
“Jesus…”
“The DA at the time prosecuted, of course, since it was high-profile and involved someone from his office. So at least Beau didn’t have to prosecute his friend. But he was still really torn up about it.” She popped the piece of pineapple into her mouth and spoke with her mouth full. “And I was there for him. At least I didn’t screw that up.”
Dale leaned closer. “Hey, Yorke.”
She turned, swallowed her bite of pineapple.
“You’re no screwup.”
Chapter Thirteen
Felix ducked behind the billiards table just as another shot rang out from the man’s gun, smashing into the table’s slate with a crack.
“You knocked over my goddamn pool table!” the saloonkeeper screamed, loud enough to be heard over the blaring alarm, as he moved toward Felix. “Do you know how much that cost?”
He was a large, ponderous man in a bizarre, leotard-shaped, white shirt. His arms were exposed, as was the top of his chest, and all of this skin was covered in thick, black hair and sweat. His face was red with anger, eyebrows wrenched together, teeth grinding.
The alarm bellowed incessantly. Horribly loud, making Felix’s ears ring.