by Alan Drew
“You’ve been keeping busy,” Ben said. He was riding shotgun in Hernandez’s unmarked cruiser, following Marco’s patrol car down Serrano Canyon, where Ben had chased the serial’s Tercel just last week.
Hernandez nodded. “We can’t sit on this one, not with that other kid out there.”
It was late afternoon, and Ben thought they’d pick Wakeland up at his house or at the apartment, somewhere quiet and discreet, but Marco’s cruiser turned left onto Conquistador Road and he realized they were headed toward the high school. When they pulled into the parking lot, there were three black-and-whites parked in front of the swim complex and two news vans parked along the curb.
“Making a show of this, huh?” Ben said, hearing the accusation in his own voice.
Hernandez glanced at him, barely contained frustration in his eyes, as he pulled into a parking spot. “Right now all we can charge him with are dirty pictures,” Hernandez said, slamming the gear shift into park. “Helen Huntsman’s talked to us; we’re working on the AP, Rutledge, but it’s not enough yet. We can put him away for the pictures, but I want to get him on everything. You get it?”
Ben nodded.
“I want whoever else is out there to see this,” Hernandez said. “Maybe someone will come forward. I want everyone looking at him when we walk him out of here, want everyone to know exactly what he is.”
From the cruiser, Ben watched Hernandez and Marco huddle with the officers at the front door of the complex before they streamed inside. Through the fence, Ben could see the boys swimming the lanes, Wakeland stalking the opposite pool deck, calling out cadences.
It didn’t matter, Ben had finally decided yesterday, whether or not the serial killed Lucero. Ben would never know for sure anyway; the evidence was the evidence and it told an incomplete story—which, to be honest, was almost always the way it was with evidence. Beyond a shadow of a doubt? There was always doubt, even when you—or at least Ben—knew you were right. Lucero had been threatened by Wakeland, Lucero had been upset, Lucero had found the gun. Whatever did or did not happen after that, there were still those pictures Natasha discovered in the closet, still the documented fact of that ugliness. It didn’t matter if there was actual blood on Wakeland’s hands; there were other ways of draining the life out of someone. Regardless, Ben thought he was right about this. If there was a God up there, or someone alive who knew exactly what happened the night Lucero died, he’d let them decide, let them judge him.
Now the officers were on the pool deck, Marco spinning Wakeland around, cuffing the man’s hands behind his back, Hernandez flanked by three uniforms while he read Wakeland his Miranda rights.
They disappeared a few moments inside the complex before the doors opened and Hernandez and Marco emerged with Wakeland between them, his head bowed. Two reporters converged on Wakeland, shoving microphones in his face. Boys had jumped out of the pool, towels wrapped around their waists, and stood at the fence, watching. Phillip was there, too, his fists clutching the metal fence, his face awash in shock. Ben got out of the car then and stood in the parking lot, watching Wakeland, wanting the man to see him at this moment. Marco and one of the uniforms glanced at Ben, but the coach would not raise his bowed head. At Marco’s cruiser, Hernandez spun Wakeland around and lifted the man’s head by the chin and made him look at Ben. Ben stared at the coach, but Wakeland averted his eyes, watching the bars of the fence that separated the parking lot from the pool complex. Then Hernandez pushed Wakeland’s head into the backseat of Marco’s cruiser and they were gone—no lights, no sirens, the championship banners waving quietly in the ocean breeze.
—
TWENTY-SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS. That’s what it cost to get the coffin and the shipping crate, the plane ticket on United to Mexico City, and the hearse to carry it to the cargo bay at LAX. Ten minutes to drain his savings account. Ben promised he’d drive Esperanza and Santiago to the coroner’s office to claim the body, promised them no immigration police would be there, promised them that it would only be them, Ben, and his good friend who was the medical examiner.
When he arrived at the camp the morning after Wakeland’s arrest, Esperanza and Santiago were standing on the edge of the field, dressed in what could only be described as their Sunday best. Ben got out of the truck and opened the door for Esperanza, who just stood there on the edge of the field, eyes fixed on him.
“Please,” he said, gesturing toward the passenger door, lightly touching the small of her back.
A stinging slap clapped the healing bone around his eye. When Ben got his vision back, Esperanza was facing him, her right hand still raised in the air. She glared at him, her eyes watering now, and whispered something to Santiago.
“For your silence,” Santiago translated.
Ben nodded. If that’s all she was going to give him, he was getting off easy.
“Please,” he said, gesturing again toward the seat. “Please, let’s go get your son.”
She crossed in front of him to take her seat but then paused, turned to him again, and touched her palm to his cheek, a small blessing before slipping into the car.
—
SANTIAGO LEFT THE copy of the Rancho Santa Elena World News on the bench seat of the truck. He’d walked into town this morning to get a gallon of water, he had told Ben on the ride to the coroner, when he saw Wakeland’s face on the front page of the paper. LEGENDARY LOCAL COACH CHARGED WITH SEXUAL EXPLOITATION OF MINORS screamed the headline. Ben’s name was mentioned in the paper, Santiago had said. That’s how they knew.
After claiming Lucero’s body and dropping off Santiago and Esperanza back at the camp, Ben pulled over in the bike lane and read the article. He was mentioned as one of two men who had accused Wakeland of sexual abuse. The other accuser was said to be anonymous.
He drove then, over to the Texaco station, and called Hernandez from the pay phone. He wasn’t ready to walk into the station, not today at least.
“Who’s anonymous?” he asked.
“You know how this works, Ben,” Hernandez said. “I can’t tell you. That’s why it’s anonymous.”
“It’s Tucker Preston, right?” Ben said. He hoped it was Tucker. Wanted to believe he could do it.
“We interviewed that freshman kid, Phillip,” Hernandez said, changing the subject.
Ben’s heart jumped into his throat.
“Looks like we got it in time,” Hernandez said. “I’ll keep you in the loop when I can, but you don’t get any police privilege on this, no inside information. I don’t want to compromise anything on this one. So keep the hell out.”
—
THAT AFTERNOON, BEN drove out to the Wedge to ride some waves. Body surfing wasn’t medically approved, he was sure of that, but the cut around his eye was nearly healed and he needed to swim, needed to be submerged in the cold silence of the water. He listened to News Radio 1070 on the way down, a special report about the serial. The reporter interviewed people on the street, and they recounted their terror with an excitement that verged on pleasure. Their relief was so absolute, you thought nothing terrible could ever happen again. It was finished. No sensational trial, no dramatic testimony—just a three-month burst of violence that would soon become a fearful memory. But there would be more, Ben knew; there were always more. There were a lot of malformed people out there to fear. Some of them lived down the street, some of them right next door. They seemed like you, except for that ugly thing they tried to hide.
The swell was small, two to three feet, coming out of the north, and its insignificance kept the surfers away. Before the sun dove toward the horizon, Ben was alone swimming toward the break, the water glassy and clean, turning into the tiny peaks and riding quiet lefts toward the beach.
When he was finished, he called her from a pay phone at the beach. She had been smart enough to wait and let him make the call, and when he came up the drive just after sunset Natasha was sitting on the porch, waiting for him. She took his hand when he got to her, held it a moment, and
then let go. He sat down next to her a few inches away, not sure where the lines of demarcation existed now in this part of his life. Puffs of black bulldozer exhaust rose above the ridge of Quail Hill. He could hear the clangs of the machines erasing the hard evidence of a past that would soon exist only in memory. Maybe he’d forget some of it, maybe it would always be there, but he was here now, in this present, and he needed to live in it.
She took him inside and dabbed the cut on his eye with alcohol. It burned and she blew on it to cool it down. Then she kissed him and he kissed her, his mouth willing, his body, too. She pulled his coat from his right and then left shoulder and ran her hands down the sides of his back, and he shuddered.
She smiled at him and guided him toward bed. Her fingers found the top button of his shirt and he lay there, still, as she worked at the next button and then the next. When she neared the final button, the familiar tension came into his body, a sort of haunting inside, and he softly squeezed her hand and pulled it away.
“There’s no one here,” she said. “It’s just you and me.”
He nodded and unhooked the last button then and let her pull him free of the shirt. He shook once and something caught in the back of his throat. She kissed him there, on the soft indentation of his neck, her hand working down his chest.
“Just you and me,” she said. “You and me.”
For Miriam, Nathaniel, and Adeline
Acknowledgments
Writing may be a solitary act, but no author finishes a book without a community of people who offer support, encouragement, honest criticism, patience, and sometimes stiff drinks.
I’m indebted to all my colleagues at Villanova University for their professional support, but also for their friendship. I’m particularly thankful to Evan Radcliffe, who could not have been a more caring and thoughtful department chair. Thanks to Joseph Lennon for his editorial insight, and for saying this to me one cold winter night over dinner: “You’ll get this book done, because you have to get it done.” To Jean Lutes for her friendship, her wise counsel, and her shared love of gin martinis. Gracias to my fellow Southern California expats who helped me keep one foot on the “best coast” while writing in the east: Lisa Sewell, Kamran Javadizadeh, and Alice Dailey.
All my gratitude goes out to my editor, Kate Medina, who waited all of the Obama administration for this novel. Thanks, too, to Gina Centrello for her enthusiastic support of this book. I’m indebted to everyone at Random House who helped shepherd this story through all its various forms: Derrill Hagood, Anna Pitoniak, Erica Gonzalez, Janet Wygal, Avideh Bashirrad, Sally Marvin, Jennifer Garza, Samantha Leach, Sanyu Dillon, Leigh Marchant, and everyone else in-house whose fingerprints are stamped on these pages.
Thank you to my wonderful agent, Dorian Karchmar, whose patience, intelligent criticism, and unwavering support kept me going when I was ready to give up writing and take up the ukulele.
I’m lucky to count good readers among my friends and family whose insight and cheerleading helped me keep the faith: Robert Rosenberg, Janet Baker, Adam Davis, Meg Cannon, Craig Rutter, Beth Frede, Dawn Roth, and Kara Cleffi.
And to my dear friend Caren Streb, to whom this book is indebted in immeasurable ways.
Love to my three families, Drew, Larson, and Frede, who endured numerous family visits in which I locked myself in a room and ignored them while working on this book.
All my heart and soul goes to my children, Nathaniel and Adeline, who may one day read this book and wonder, What the heck is wrong with Dad? You both are the greatest things I’ve helped create.
And big, big love to my wife, Miriam Drew, always my first and toughest reader! Without you, there is no book. Without you, I’m sitting on an iron-stained carpet in a San Francisco apartment, writing terrible poetry about a woman I might one day fall in love with. Thanks for letting me fall in love with you, and for getting me out of the poetry business.
BY ALAN DREW
Gardens of Water
Shadow Man
About the Author
ALAN DREW’s critically acclaimed debut novel, Gardens of Water, has been translated into ten languages and published in nearly two dozen countries. He is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where he was awarded a teaching/writing fellowship. An associate professor of English at Villanova University, where he directs the creative writing program, he lives near Philadelphia with his wife and two children. Learn more about his books at alan-drew.com.
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