Mission Canyon

by Meg Gardiner

  I stood up, feeling disturbed. Needing to shake out the bugs. I changed clothes and went for a run.

  I angled past the Mission, standing formidable against the mountains in the afternoon sun, and headed up the hill on Alameda Padre Serra. I pumped my arms, felt my quads whining. This part of the run I consider penance; it absolves me of pride, lust, gluttony, bragging, and wearing blue glitter eye shadow more than once. Maybe even of encouraging Amber to gossip. Burn, quads, burn.

  I ran for forty-five minutes. When I finally stopped in front of Nikki’s house I bent over and propped my hands on my knees. Rivulets of sweat ran down my face. Nikki came running out her door with Thea on her hip. ‘‘Jesse came by ten minutes ago, looking for you. Something’s lit a fire under him.’’

  A nut of worry hardened in my stomach. ‘‘Thanks.’’

  In the house, I reached him on his cell phone.

  ‘‘I’m on my way to Goleta.’’ He was talking on the hands-free set, raising his voice over the sound of the engine. ‘‘The shit’s hitting the fan. Brand’s lawyer knows the cops are looking at the hit-and-run as murder. O’Leary called me, telling me to back the hell off or be sued for harassment.’’

  ‘‘That’s absurd.’’ Sweat stung my eyes and I wiped it away.

  ‘‘The point is, O’Leary called Adam and threatened him the same way. I had a phone message from Adam. He sounded berserk.’’

  ‘‘Where are you going?’’ I said.

  ‘‘To the Holiday Inn. I’m afraid Adam’s on his way there to confront Brand.’’

  I grabbed my car keys. ‘‘It’s room one twenty-seven. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’’

  ‘‘I’m pulling off the freeway now. Pray I’m not too late, Ev.’’

  The sheriff’s deputies were at the Holiday Inn when I arrived, two cruisers parked with their lights flashing. I skidded into a parking space and jumped out, running between buildings into the courtyard. My knees felt wobbly.

  Ahead on the walkway, a crowd stood outside room 127. I saw Jesse. Tweety Bird smiled a bright yellow smile from his tie, but his face was colorless.

  He said, ‘‘It’s a mess.’’

  The door to Brand’s room was propped open. I couldn’t see inside, but I heard a deputy saying, ‘‘You have the right to remain silent. . . .’’

  Jesse had heard the tires screech as he swung into the Holiday Inn. He saw Adam’s truck near the lobby. He parked and got out, thinking, Slow, I’m too slow. He pushed up the ramp and headed for the courtyard, going along the sidewalk, looking for Brand’s room.

  And what was he going to say if Franklin Brand opened the door?

  Here it was, three years in the making, and still a surprise. Don’t punch him, he decided. Not right off.

  The courtyard was quiet, the pool empty. The only person in sight was a maid pushing a laundry cart. He counted the room numbers.

  One twenty-seven. He stopped and knocked. ‘‘Brand. Open up.’’

  He rapped again, harder, and the door moved. He realized that it hadn’t been completely shut. He nudged it open.

  ‘‘Hello?’’

  He pushed it open farther and smelled a metallic scent, heard the sound of labored breathing. The light caught Adam leaning against the wall inside. His face looked sick. He was staring at something Jesse couldn’t see, blocked by the door.

  Jesse’s mouth felt dry. He couldn’t believe what was in Adam’s hand. A baseball bat.

  Adam looked at him. ‘‘It’s not . . . I didn’t . . . Jesse, don’t—’’

  But Jesse shoved the door open. It hit the wall and bounced back. He stopped it with his hand.

  ‘‘No, Jesus, Adam.’’

  Lying on the floor beyond the bed, under tangled sheets soaked red with blood, was a body.

  Jesse ran his fingers through his hair. A moment later, a deputy said, ‘‘Move back,’’ and came out of the motel room leading Adam by the arm, with his hands cuffed behind his back. He looked lost.

  Jesse said, ‘‘I’ll get to the jail as soon as I can.’’

  Adam tried to nod, tried to open his mouth, seemed unable to do either. He just looked at Jesse over his shoulder as he was led away.

  A deputy approached. ‘‘You went in the room?’’

  ‘‘Just as far as the doorway.’’

  ‘‘Touch anything?’’

  ‘‘I pushed the door open.’’

  ‘‘The crime scene people will need to get comparison prints. Don’t go away.’’

  Jesse had been trained the same way I had in lawyering: Don’t volunteer information, don’t run off at the mouth, especially not to the police, and don’t repeat hearsay. But he looked at the deputy and said, ‘‘Adam told me he didn’t do it.’’

  ‘‘Righy-o,’’ the deputy said, walking away.

  14

  It was eleven when Jesse came home. The surf was crashing onto the beach, phosphorescing in the night air. He looked exhausted and sad.

  I got up from the sofa. ‘‘I saved you some Thai take-out. ’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Ev, but I’m just not hungry.’’

  He unknotted his Tweety Bird tie and flung it on the kitchen counter. From the fridge he took out a bottle of cranberry juice and poured a glass.

  ‘‘Feeling okay?’’ I said.

  He pressed his knuckles into the small of his back. ‘‘Just staying on top of things.’’

  Paraplegics were prone to urinary tract infections. The cranberry juice helped prevent them.

  ‘‘I went to the jail,’’ he said.

  I waited.

  ‘‘Adam insists he didn’t murder Brand. He says he went to the motel to talk to him. Says he couldn’t hold it in anymore after getting that snotty phone call from Brand’s lawyer.’’ He finished the juice. ‘‘He admits taking the baseball bat. He says when he got there the door was open. He went in and found the body.’’

  I said, ‘‘Do you believe him?’’

  He rubbed his eyes. ‘‘I do. But who am I to the cops? He’s royally screwed.’’

  He headed out onto the deck. I followed him. The air had cooled, and moonlight shimmered on the ocean. Up the coast, the city lights rimmed the harbor like gold coins.

  ‘‘What the hell was he thinking?’’ He looked out at the water. ‘‘He’s the most disciplined person I know. I’ve seen him do workouts that could be outlawed as torture under the Geneva Convention. He argues theology with me until my ears bleed. He has a PhD in physics from Cal Tech and he’s a postdoc at UCSB, where the profs have been snatching Nobels like dog biscuits.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘And he takes a baseball bat to the motel. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’’

  I rested a hand on his shoulder. He pulled me onto his lap and put his arms around my waist.

  ‘‘How’d it all get so screwed up?’’ he said. ‘‘No, forget that. Brand’s dead and that’s just fine.’’

  A wire of shock ran through me. He felt me tighten.

  ‘‘I know that sounds cold. So be it.’’ He stared at the breakers. ‘‘I wouldn’t admit how I feel to anybody but you.’’

  I knew he was talking about trust. I brushed a lock of hair off his forehead.

  He said, ‘‘I’m sorry I never talked with you about these things, all these years.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to apologize, Jesse.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I do. I know there’s been a black hole, topics that were off-limits. But I couldn’t find a way. . . . That was such a bad time, so dark. Even thinking about it gave me vertigo, like a void was ripping open and if I spoke it out loud, I’d fall in.’’

  His hands were tight on my waist.

  ‘‘You still feel that way, don’t you?’’ I said.

  ‘‘Hanging onto you so I don’t slide down, right now.’’

  I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. He closed his eyes.

  ‘‘Thanks for putting up with me,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Don’t say that.’’

  ‘‘Let me talk
. Thanks for coming to see me when I was in the hospital. And for coming to rehab.’’

  ‘‘Shh.’’

  ‘‘No, it’s important. Tough times sort people out. You find out who you can count on,’’ he said. ‘‘And I could count on you and Adam. You were there.’’

  Cold water ran through my heart. As Jesse never spoke about the crash, I never mentioned how some of his friends treated him afterward. They disappeared. I didn’t talk about it because he didn’t need my anger, and he rejected pity in the most withering terms.

  And rehab was a difficult place to visit.

  I first went a month after the hit-and-run. It was evening, and I took him a submarine sandwich and a couple of beers. When he saw me coming up the corridor, he reached for the grab bar that hung above him and started pulling himself up. I tried a smile and failed. He was in a body brace, and his left leg had leg rods and pins drilled through his skin into the bone. Under the bedside lamp his face looked pale and thin. He must have lost twenty-five pounds. The man next to him on the ward was a quadriplegic with a halo brace screwed into his skull.

  I said, ‘‘Thought you might be hungry.’’

  He worked to sit up straight. I watched, and he watched me watch.

  He said, ‘‘And for my next trick, I’ll drag my ass off this mattress onto the floor.’’

  The next time I went, I approached the door and saw a man standing by the bed with his back to me. He was wearing a UCSB Swimming T-shirt, and he had Jesse’s dark hair, height, and honed physique. Longing overcame logic, and I said, ‘‘Wow.’’

  Adam turned around.

  I stopped in the doorway with witlessness dripping down my face. Cue mortification. Jesse said, ‘‘Over here,’’ and I saw him sitting next to the bed, in the wheelchair.

  Thinking about it made my teeth ache. But that was the moment when he took charge and showed us how it was going to be.

  He said, ‘‘Either of you have today’s newspaper?’’

  Adam and I looked at each other. I said, ‘‘No, why?’’

  ‘‘You look like a couple of lost puppies. I want to roll up the sports section and spank you both across the nose until you stop it.’’

  Now Jesse leaned his head against my shoulder. I didn’t like his show of gratitude, didn’t think I should be congratulated for sticking with him.

  I said, ‘‘Hey.’’

  He looked up, and I kissed him. The waves lapped at the sand beyond us.

  ‘‘I love you,’’ I said.

  ‘‘You’re not just saying that because you already bought the wedding dress?’’

  ‘‘No, I’m saying it because I’ve ordered five hundred canapés. I’m in deep.’’ The breeze stirred and I felt goose bumps, a spooky prickle. ‘‘We are in deep, aren’t we?’’

  ‘‘Jesus, yeah. How the hell I’ll get Adam out of this, I don’t know.’’

  He let out a hard breath. ‘‘Ev, I have to tell you something else. The people who’ve been threatening me made contact today.’’

  ‘‘Oh, my God. What do they want?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know yet, beyond jerking me around. They didn’t specify.’’

  I tried to read his face in the moonlight. ‘‘Jesse?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know, Ev. But I think it’s going to get worse before it gets better.’’

  Cool air rushed across my arms. ‘‘Let’s go in.’’

  Back inside, I locked the doors, closed the shutters, and we headed to the bedroom. While Jesse went to brush his teeth I started undressing. I felt tired and at sea. But, shimmying out of my jeans, I decided to shut the door on anxiety and sadness, at least for the next eight hours.

  I went to the stereo and selected an album, Aretha Franklin. In the bedroom I dimmed the lights and stripped down to my bra and panties. When Jesse came out, I was kneeling on the bed with the covers turned down, as if I were Rita Hayworth.

  He had a wistful look on his face. Understanding that this was going to be a concerted effort, R & R from the combat zone.

  He said, ‘‘I haven’t taken any Viagra.’’

  ‘‘It’s okay. Come here.’’

  He slid over onto the bed. I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off.

  He tilted his head. ‘‘You know, in the catalogs women wear underwear that matches.’’

  ‘‘You read women’s underwear catalogs?’’

  ‘‘For the political commentary. Is there any reason your panties are inside out?’’

  I pushed him down and straddled him. ‘‘Yeah, I’m a sexual outlaw.’’

  ‘‘Who?’’ He smiled. ‘‘Can I play, too?’’

  ‘‘Sure. You like politics, how about president and first lady?’’ I worked on the top button of his jeans. ‘‘Or Che Guevara and the peasant girl?’’

  ‘‘Excellent. But for once, I want to be Che.’’

  I was laughing when I lay down on top of him and pressed my mouth on his.

  It was midnight when the phone rang, and Jesse was having another nightmare. I fumbled for the light and reached across him to grab the phone from the nightstand. I ended up lying on his chest, feeling his heart pound against my own. His skin was hot. I picked up the phone.

  It was Adam.

  ‘‘I’ve been released,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any money for a taxi. Could one of you give me a ride home?’’

  In the morning I went with Jesse to the police station, wanting to find out from Chris Ramseur what had exonerated Adam. I asked for Chris at the front desk and got a look. The receptionist said, ‘‘One moment,’’ and phoned Lieutenant Rome.

  Clayton Rome walked as though he were growling. His belt buckle and cuff links gleamed. His face looked as though it had been smoothed into a frown with a belt sander.

  He said, ‘‘What the hell’s going on?’’

  Jesse’s guard went up. ‘‘We wanted to speak to Detective Ramseur. Adam Sandoval was released from jail last night, and we wondered—’’

  ‘‘You’re a piece of work.’’

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  Rome’s nostrils were flaring. ‘‘You wondered what?’’

  ‘‘What cleared him.’’

  ‘‘You were at the crime scene before any of us. You tell me.’’

  ‘‘What’s going on?’’

  Rome’s hands were drawing into balls. ‘‘Forensics and pathology exonerated Dr. Sandoval. The baseball bat wasn’t the murder weapon. The pattern of blood spatter didn’t fit with the cleanliness of Sandoval’s clothes and shoes. And there’s something else.’’

  I said, ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘It wasn’t Franklin Brand.’’

  In the background a phone rang.

  ‘‘It was Detective Ramseur.’’

  Jesse put his hand against the desk, bracing himself. The room became bright, and I heard a buzzing sound.

  Rome had turned to wood. ‘‘And you and Sandoval were in the room with his body when the sheriff’s deputies arrived. I hope you’re parked outside. You can save me the trouble of getting a search warrant to go through your car.’’

  15

  By the disorganized haze in Jesse’s eyes, I knew his shields were down. He handed Rome his car keys. I went outside and phoned Lavonne Marks.

  She swooped into the station like a crow, telling Jesse, ‘‘You’re in shock, and this is nothing but harassment. So shut up.’’

  And she was right. The police had no intention of arresting Jesse. He was taking the brunt of their rage and grief at the death of a comrade. When we left the station, they made him run the gauntlet, glaring in silence as he headed past.

  When we got outside, Lavonne said, ‘‘All right. Tell me what they think.’’

  Jesse rubbed his forehead. ‘‘They think Adam and I are dirty. We were at the crime scene, and Brand’s gone, and Rome thinks those facts are connected.’’

  ‘‘Is that it? Nothing specific?’’ she said.

  ‘‘Rome thinks that Isa
ac was in on Brand’s embezzlement scam, and demanded a bigger cut of the proceeds. He thinks that’s why Brand killed him.’’

  I said, ‘‘That’s outrageous.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’

  Lavonne said, ‘‘Why does Rome think that you and Adam Sandoval were part of this imagined conspiracy?’’

  ‘‘Because Mako paid us off.’’

  A darkening rage seeped over my vision and thoughts. ‘‘The insurance settlement—Rome thinks Mako paid it to you as hush money?’’

  ‘‘From his questions, that’s the only conclusion I can draw.’’

  Lavonne said, ‘‘He was trying to spook you. Don’t let him.’’

  ‘‘Too late.’’ He looked up at me, his eyes awash with uncertain light. ‘‘I can’t believe it was Chris, and I didn’t know. I saw his hand. . . .’’

  He pulled his tie loose and unbuttoned his collar.

  Two men in suits strode past us, heading into the station. They had confidence in their stride, as though everyone would move out of their way, as though they were the offensive line of the Chicago Bears. One of them, a man about my age, leaned forward, as if leading with his nose, sniffing. His gray suit hung large on his reedy frame. He looked at us with assessing eyes.

  After they passed, Jesse said, ‘‘They’re feds.’’

  Lavonne stared back at the building. ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think that’s a coincidence. What—’’

  She held up a hand. ‘‘Not here. You’re in trouble, Jesse.’’

  That evening I sat on my porch watching the western sky. The horizon was stained purple and pierced with the evening star. I felt sadness winding like a cord around my chest.

  Chris, I thought. A sweet man with a tart edge, he believed in Jesse, and me, and the cause of justice. I didn’t know him, really. I knew only that he went to Franklin Brand’s motel room, and died violently.

  The news overflowed with the headline: ‘‘Police Hunt Cop Killer.’’ But that was backward. The roles had switched. The hunters had become the hunted.

  And Brand was out there. I went inside and locked the door.