The boy had lied to him. He’d said his name was Ricky. The man felt sharp pains in his chest. His breath was shallow. This boy lived in San Clemente. The horrid prostitute and her husband who had stolen the photos and blackmailed him lived in San Clemente. Even the name sounded familiar. He fell forward over the computer terminal and held his chest. He waited for the pressing pain signaling a heart attack, but it didn’t come. Finally he sat up and with trembling fingers opened a drawer and took out the newspaper article he had saved on the deaths.
There it was: Josh McKinley was the surviving son of Ivory and Sam Perkins.
Emmet managed to catch up to the gold Lexus at the stoplight. He stayed at least one car length behind as he followed them to Irvine. If he stopped to call the police, he thought, they would get away and he had no idea where the man was taking Josh. When the car turned into the apartment parking lot, Emmet couldn’t navigate the van fast enough.
He lost them.
“Shit,” he muttered, feeling desperate and angry, cursing his weakened body, wishing he was strong and normal. “Shit,” he said again. Around and around he circled in the parking lot, wrestling with the steering wheel, his exasperation rising with each second, consumed by exhaustion yet determined to go on. Something was going to happen to Josh, and he would be responsible. He should have told Lara the truth.
He found the Lexus, but it was empty. They were already gone. He fell forward against the steering wheel. His glasses slid off and ended up on the floorboard where he couldn’t reach them. He had no idea what apartment the man lived in or where he had taken Josh. There was only one thing to do. He needed help and he needed help fast.
He simply had to call the police.
Josh sat on the bed in the dark room and watched the adult movie. He was beginning to get drowsy and almost fell asleep several times. But he sure wasn’t going to fall asleep in this house with this man, he told himself. He set the empty wine cooler on the end table. Even though it tasted like Kool-Aid, Josh was beginning to feel the alcohol. He was dizzy and almost felt like he was going to be sick to his stomach.
The movie was dumb. He’d seen these kind of things before anyway. Sam had always had a whole drawer full of them in the bedroom.
All of a sudden the video clicked off and soft music started playing. It was old-timer music, with lots of violins and things. It gave him the willies. Sometimes they played music like this in horror movies, he thought. The room was completely black since the movie had gone off. Josh tried to see in the dark. This was turning into a horror movie as far as he was concerned. He was about ready to split. This whole thing might not have been such a good idea, he told himself, his fear escalating. He might have bit off a lot more than he could chew.
Then he saw the man in the doorway.
He was naked. He appeared for only a second and then disappeared inside the room. Josh held his breath; his heart pounded in his ears. He had to get out of here, call the police. Then he heard rustling near the bed and saw the outline of the man.
“You lied to me, Josh,” the man said. His voice was not at all the voice of before. Now he sounded like his school principal. He sounded stern and angry.
“I didn’t lie to you, man,” Josh said, getting up, ready to bolt from the room.
“Ricky Simmons? You’re not Ricky Simmons.”
Shit, Josh thought. How did the man find out? And what was he doing without his clothes? “Sure, I am. I told you I was. Anyway, I have to go home. My mom will be looking for me.”
“Your mother won’t be looking for you, Josh. Your mother is dead.”
Sweat sprang from every pore on Josh’s body. He was terrified. This had to be the man who had killed his mother and Sam. He rolled off the side of the bed and started crawling in the dark to the door. Then he heard a flurry of rapid movement and felt a sharp pain in his hand. He tried to keep moving, but he couldn’t. It was as if his body was nailed to the floor. The man was standing over him and had stepped on his hand.
“Please,” Josh cried. “Let me go. You’re breaking my hand.”
“And you,” the man said, “you think it’s just fine to lie to me, trick me, deceive me. People are always doing that to me. Boys like you, in fact. They take all the gifts I give them and then they turn against me, ridicule me, call me disgusting names. They use me, Josh. They don’t appreciate me.”
“No,” Josh pleaded. “I didn’t mean to trick you. Please, let me up. I won’t call you names. I won’t do anything. I promise.”
“You’re just like your mother, little Josh. Like mother, like son. She used me and then demanded I give her money. Even when I did, it wasn’t enough. She wanted more, more, more. She was greedy. You know what happened to her, don’t you? You know what happens to people who lie and cheat, who use people, don’t you?”
Josh was crying. His hand was killing him and he was consumed by fear. “Please, just let me go home. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Please.”
“No,” the man yelled. “No. Because of you, because of what you’ve done, you can’t go home. I can’t let you go home.” He bent down and pulled Josh up by his hair. “You must pay me back, Josh. You must do exactly as I tell you. Then we’ll talk about you going home.”
“I’ll do anything, man,” Josh said, rubbing his hand, glancing furtively around the room for something he could use as a weapon. “Just don’t hurt me anymore.”
“Get on the bed,” the man ordered Josh. Then his voice dropped to a low rasp. “Be still and close your eyes. Unzip your pants. I won’t hurt you. I’m going to love you.”
It didn’t matter what he did with this boy, the man thought. He could indulge his every desire. Josh McKinley knew far too much ever to walk out of this apartment alive.
Before they pulled in Evergreen’s driveway, Rickerson had flipped the radio back to the San Clemente frequency. They were close enough to pick up the signal. Almost the second he did, the dispatcher advised him that Dr. Gail Stewart had called from the crime lab.
“Station one,” he responded, “did she advise the nature of the call? I’m tied up right now.”
“Unit 654, she said it was urgent. I’ve been trying to raise you. She’s in her office waiting.”
“Damn,” Rickerson said, turning to Lara. Then he radioed the chief and told them to stand by. They were only a few feet from the entrance to Evergreen’s driveway. He tried to contact Gail Stewart on his cellular phone, but she had already left for the day.
Calling the chief back and telling him they were ready, they drove into Evergreen’s driveway. Just as Rickerson was getting out of the car, a white county car roared up and screeched to a halt. Gail Stewart leaped out and jogged toward Rickerson’s vehicle on her stubby legs, her breasts jiggling, her face flushed.
“God,” she said, panting, leaning over and holding her side. “I found you. You don’t know the strings I had to pull to get Evergreen’s address. You haven’t gone in yet, have you?”
“This better be urgent, Gail,” he told her. “We’re about to arrest the S.O.B. He’s probably watching us through the window right now.”
“Well, you be the judge. I’m just the conveyor of fact. Your man finally came through with the film of Evergreen nude. They shot it in the locker room at the Sports Club in Irvine. He went there for a massage yesterday.” She paused, then spat it out. “Evergreen’s not the man in the photos.”
“What the fuck?” Rickerson exclaimed. Lara was standing next to him and placed her hand over her chest.
“Evergreen’s not the man?” Lara repeated, incredulous. “Then who is? My God…what’s going on?”
Rickerson ignored Lara and glared at Gail Stewart. The other men were out of their units and standing around on Evergreen’s circular driveway, waiting for Rickerson to give them the signal. He spoke low, stepping to a corner of the yard under a big tree. Lara followed them. “Okay, Gail, want to tell me how you manufactured this atomic bomb?”
“He doesn’t have scoliosis. He
’s simply not the man in the pictures, the man with the boys.” Gail shoved a tree branch out of her face.
“But that’s his son. You verified that was his son and his wife. It has to be him. You must be mistaken.” Rickerson was sweating. His eyes took in the string of police cars. They were about to come down like the marines on the presiding judge of Orange County, and now she was telling him he wasn’t the right man.
“I can’t believe this,” Lara said, glancing first at Gail Stewart and then back to Rickerson. “I thought you were certain.”
“Gail,” Rickerson barked, “are you going to tell me what’s going on? We were all set, I thought. This was the guy. Remember?”
She became indignant. Her chunky cheeks froze into solid rocks. There were no dimples now. “Look here, Rickerson, I told you the man in the pictures might not be related to the people reflected in the mirror. And I told you that on several occasions. You’re the one who kept insisting that he was. He might have just used their house, be a friend or something. It was Evergreen’s son. There’s no doubt about that, so I guess he has to be involved in some way. And he did release that Cummings guy.” She was breathing heavily. She paused before continuing, becoming defensive. “Hey, don’t jump all over me. You’re the cop. I’m just a criminologist.”
“Fuck,” Rickerson said, stomping on a snail as it inched its way across the driveway and listening to it crunch. Then he just stood there, staring out at the men, trying to comprehend what he’d just heard, his chest heaving. He was flustered and angry.
“My God,” Lara said, “what are we going to do now?” She waved her arms around, on the verge of outright hysteria. “They’re going to throw me off the bench for sure. I’m going to look like a fool. And what about all these men…the warrant?”
Rickerson was silent, trying to collect himself, regroup. For a few moments he didn’t answer. Finally he spoke, the decision made. “It was Evergreen’s son in the pictures and Evergreen gave the order to release Cummings. If he didn’t contract these killings, he knows who did.”
He paused and looked over at Lara. “We’re going in.
Emmet opened the rear door to the van. Not wanting to wait for the lift, he shoved his wheelchair out. Then he climbed down from the van and fell the rest of the way onto the concrete. That’s when he saw the number painted on the curb in front of the gold Lexus. It read 212. Instantly he realized that was the apartment number, that the man had an assigned parking spot.
He managed to get the chair open and hoisted himself into the seat. Hitting the high speed, he took off across the parking lot, his eyes scanning the numbers on the doors, leaning forward to go even faster, searching frantically for unit 212. He had to get Josh out of that apartment. If he called the police, it would take forever just to get them to understand him. Then he would have to wait for an officer to arrive. All the while Josh was in grave danger.
Emmet decided he had to rescue Josh himself.
If the man attacked him, it might give Josh a chance to escape. And Emmet had little to lose. If the man beat him, it would be nothing new. Life had already taken that shot, beat his once strong body to only a shell of his previous self. If he killed him, well, Emmet thought, he was going to die in the near future anyway. Josh was young and healthy. Emmet was not. And Josh had brought something into Emmet’s life: laughter, friendship, a sense of belonging. Josh accepted him completely as he was, overlooked the ravages of his illness.
Finally Emmet saw unit 212. His eyes drifted up and his body compressed even farther in the wheelchair. What Emmet saw in front of him was the icy north face of Mount Everest. He looked for an elevator, but there was none. Then his eyes returned to the obstacle: steep, despicable stairs.
Unit 212 was on the second floor.
They knocked and announced that they were the police. Then they rang the doorbell and waited. If Evergreen didn’t answer in a few seconds, they were prepared to kick the door down. Lara was sitting in Rickerson’s unit in the driveway, looking out the window. A few seconds later, Evergreen came to the door. He was in his robe—an old moth-eaten brown and green flannel. An odor assaulted their nostrils. It was Vicks. Rickerson moved closer to the door. “Judge Leo Evergreen,” he said, knowing it was him, having to go through the motions, make the identification.
“Yes,” he said, pulling his robe closed in the front and peering out at the police units. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to my son?” He blanched and looked as if he was about to faint, grabbing onto the door to steady himself.
“Uh, no, Judge Evergreen,” Rickerson said. “Your son’s just fine. We have a warrant for your arrest and a warrant to search your residence. May we come in?”
What they were saying didn’t appear to register. Evergreen looked old and tired. He began coughing. “A warrant for my arrest?” he repeated once the spasm passed, stepping farther inside the house. “What in the world is going on, Officer? Yes, come in. There must be some type of mistake. Do you know who I am?”
Evergreen stepped back and they entered. The men flared out and started heading for the back of the house to conduct the search. Evergreen watched them in dismay. Rickerson read him his rights. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to take you down to the station,” he told him once he was finished and the little card he’d read from was back in his pocket. He stood to handcuff him.
“But—but I can’t believe this. This is an abomination. What in the heavens is this about? This has to be a mistake…some dreadful error.”
Rickerson read off the charges and then faced the judge. “Do you waive your right to an attorney?” he asked him. “Because if you do, we can discuss this right here.”
“Yes—yes,” Evergreen stammered. His body was racked by another fit of violent coughing. “I’ve done nothing to need an attorney. I have nothing to hide. Explain this situation to me right now, Officer.”
Rickerson did. They took a seat on the living room sofa. It was a yellow brocade, probably twenty years old. On the end table were pictures in small silver frames, the silver tarnished. Evergreen was speechless, deep in thought. His voice was low and thin when he answered. “I’ve never molested a child. I’m a judge of the superior court. I’ve never in my entire life even broken a law. This is ludicrous. Who made these accusations?”
“Judge Evergreen,” Rickerson said in a consoling voice, “didn’t you ask Judge Sanderstone to release a Packy Cummings, telling her he was a confidential informant?”
Evergreen thought hard for a few moments, rubbing his forehead. Then he looked up at Rickerson. “I remember that name. I believe that was the man Irene Murdock called me about, telling me that he was a police informant and asking that I arrange his release, which of course I did.” His pale, watery eyes searched the detective’s. “We always try to accommodate you fellows in your work.” From the look on his face, that wouldn’t be the case in the future.
Rickerson stood. Things were spinning in his mind. “So Judge Murdock is the one who wanted this man released? Packy Cummings. You’re absolutely certain?”
“Well, yes, I am. I have a very good memory, Officer.” He paused and looked up at the detective as if wondering if Rickerson thought he was senile. “Really, I do.” Then he began coughing again.
“Fine,” Rickerson told the judge, walking straight out the door to the police unit where Lara was waiting. He got inside and sat there, trying to put it together in his mind.
“They’ve been calling you on the radio. I didn’t know how to work it, so I didn’t answer.”
Rickerson picked up the mike.
Emmet was waiting at the foot of the stairs right by the trash container, praying that someone would walk by and he could get them to call the police. If not that, they could help him get up the stairs to unit 212. He saw people pulling into the parking lot, but they all headed in other directions. He tried yelling, but his voice was too weak and no one heard him. Peering into the trash can, he picked out an empty aluminum can of peas, ri
pping the sharp-edged lid off. He would use it as a weapon. Someone had thrown away an old, stained T-shirt, and he tore it and then wrapped the round jagged lid in it and stuck it into his shirt pocket. “I’ve never asked for much, God,” he said in his mind, “but just this once, give me the strength I need to do this and I’ll never ask for another thing.” He propelled his body out of the wheelchair onto the walkway, his eyes on the steep flight of stairs. He had to get to Josh. His illness wasn’t going to stop him. This might be the last thing he ever did in this world, but he was going to do it.
Taking a deep breath, Emmet started crawling, pulling his frail body a step at a time up the stairs, oblivious to the pain as his elbows scraped against the concrete, only one image in his mind: Josh.
Josh was on the bed in the darkened room. He had unzipped his pants as the man had told him. Then the phone started ringing and the man stepped into the other room. Josh sprang from the bed, picking up a statue off the dresser. He could hear the man talking in the other room. He heard him mention his name. He was telling someone about him. Josh positioned himself behind the door and waited. When the man walked back in, Josh was going to bash him.
He waited. His hands were sweaty and he was afraid the statue was going to slip out. He was trembling with fear. He peered out from the door and saw the man walking back in his direction, wearing the smoking jacket again. He raised the statue over his head and held his breath. Suddenly the man stopped. There was a funny sound at the front door. It wasn’t a knock. It was like a cat scratching or a dog. The man glanced at the bedroom and then back at the door. The scratching turned into a pounding. He stepped a few feet forward.
“Stay in there,” the man said at the door to the bedroom, not realizing Josh was no longer on the bed. “Don’t come out until I tell you. Don’t make a sound.”
Josh was ready to bring the statue down on his head just when the man spun around and headed for the front door. Josh stood in the shadows and watched.
Interest of Justice Page 40