by Phoef Sutton
Or so “Miley Cyrus” had said. It seemed to Crush like kind of a theatrical way of doing things, but then this whole business hadn’t been exactly subtle from the get-go.
A roar and a sonic boom from above told Crush that the flyby was happening and the parade was about to begin. He adjusted his earpiece and peered through the tiny peephole that provided his only view of the outside world. He waited for the cue to start rolling.
“Do you think she’ll keep her word?” Zerbe asked.
“She?” Crush asked.
“Renee.”
“You really think it’s her?”
“If it isn’t, it’s somebody doing it in her name,” Zerbe said.
Crush was about to respond when Gail’s voice came over his earbud. “I think it’s time.” She was posted on the top floor of the Wood & Jones building on Colorado, with a somewhat obstructed view of the first third of the parade route, from the Norton Simon Museum to Fair Oaks and beyond.
Through the peephole, he saw the Lakers float begin to move. Zerbe turned a switch and some inspirational, quasi-classical music came blaring out of massive speakers that were hidden in the float’s framework. At the same time, Crush put the engine in gear and pressed the lever that made it go forward. It was a fairly simple mechanism. Forward with the right hand. Brake with the left. There was no reverse. Floats didn’t go backward in the Rose Parade.
He crept up Orange Grove and made the turn onto Colorado, using the pink line in the road as a guide to keep himself in the middle of the broad boulevard.
Colorado was the main thoroughfare in Old Pasadena. A four-lane street of storefronts from the turn of the last century, it looked just like it did in photographs and postcards from the 1910s. The buildings were two or three stories high, with shops on the street and offices on the upper levels. The best people lined the windows of those upper stories, so they could watch the parade without having to mix with the hoi polloi who lined the streets in sleeping bags and tents, eager to watch the passing spectacle.
“Who else could be behind this?” Zerbe asked. “Aunt Valerie?”
Crush grunted. “She doesn’t seem the type.”
“Who else?” Zerbe insisted on drawing Crush into the conversation. “Could it be an inside job?”
“Who are you thinking about?” Crush said. “Noel? Angela? Samantha? Why? Evan Gibbard? He hardly seems like an avenging angel. Personally, I think the Targeted Individuals group finally found a real enemy.”
“How about my father?” Zerbe suggested.
“Your father?”
“Think about it. Maybe Emil’s doing it all to himself. Maybe the stroke drove him crazy and his guilt is making him do it.”
Crush shook his head. “Emil doesn’t feel guilt. And that only leaves you and me. And I’m pretty sure we didn’t do it.”
Zerbe looked over at Crush. “I don’t think you did it. You’re too levelheaded. I wouldn’t put anything past me though.”
They rode without speaking after that. The cheers of the crowd and the syrupy faux-Puccini were all they could hear. Through the peephole Crush kept his eye on the distance between his float and the Lakers float. All he could see was that giant basketball bobbing in front of him. It was as if he were in a spaceship, orbiting around an orange moon.
Gail’s voice spoke up in his ear. “You’re at the intersection, Crush.”
He eased the float to a stop, giving the Singapore Airlines float behind them time to catch on and not cause a ten-float pileup.
On top of the suddenly motionless float, Emil took the microphone and threw the PA switch to another setting, turning off the music. He cleared his throat and struggled to his feet, holding himself up by gripping the railing, crushing the floral decorations with his twisted hands. He stood there and looked out at the crowd.
“Hello,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt the festivities, but I have an announcement to make. The California high-speed rail, which we were planning to make a reality, shall unfortunately not come to fruition. The bullet train, in other words, will not be built.”
Crush opened the hatch to look up at Emil as he spoke. He was doing an admirable job of killing his life’s work.
“You may be wondering why. It has recently come to my attention….” Well, that was a lie, Crush knew. Unless recently meant sometime in this century. But Crush let him have that saving grace.
Letting his eyes sweep the crowd, Crush felt his bodyguard instincts take over. This parade was a soft target if there ever was one. Cops were everywhere, of course, and the street and the floats had been swept for bombs. This year there was even a metal detector that the crowds had to pass through. But there was no way to keep danger totally at bay.
Emil went on. “It has recently come to my attention that the SGCF—the French railroad conglomerate of which I am a major shareholder…” There was a blur and a whistling sound. Emil noticed it but soldiered on. “…was involved in some less-than-savory dealings with the Third Reich during the Second World War.”
Another whistling sound. This time Emil looked down at his arm and saw a long wooden stick embedded in it. He stared at it, puzzled. Another one shot through the air and stuck in his leg. He screamed.
Arrows. Someone was shooting arrows at the old man! Crush leapt out of the hatch and climbed up the float. Another arrow flew through the air and struck near Crush’s leg, missing him by inches. Samantha, sitting next to Emil, screamed as an arrow pierced her shoulder. She fell over, twisted around, and tried to clamber down from the top of the float. Crush climbed up to her and dragged her down into the relative protection of the hills and valleys of the float’s landscape art.
By now, the crowd had figured out what was going on and was yelling and screaming and running. Crush tried to scale back up the float to Emil.
The old man, rather than hiding or protecting himself, was shouting in the direction of the arrows. “Where are you? Show yourself, you coward!” The arrows flew past all around him, barely missing him. Emil must have thought he was invincible.
Then an arrow struck Emil in the chest. He fell back against the railing just as Crush reached him. The railing gave way, and he would have fallen to the street if Crush hadn’t grabbed him by the arm. Crush pulled him back up and hoisted him onto the throne again. Crush threw himself on top of him, shielding Emil from any further shots. An arrow hit him on the left forearm as it protected Emil’s head. He pushed the pain away and concentrated on his job. Protection.
Crush heard the sound of rushing feet and the panicked crowd. But there were no more arrows. He lifted his bloody arm and looked at Emil. The old man was glaring at him with undiminished anger.
“Fuck it!” he yelled. “I’m gonna build that damn bullet train if it’s the last thing I do!”
They rode the elevator in silence. Zerbe was beat. Crush rested his aching head on Gail’s shoulder, his left arm wrapped in stiff bandages. He told Gail he was going to the hospital as soon as he delivered Zerbe back home to the loft. Gail didn’t believe him.
Angela and Noel and Donleavy were still missing. The man who’d shot the arrows was apprehended, but his name meant nothing to Crush or Zerbe. Emil was in surgery, but the prognosis was hopeful. Samantha was also hospitalized but was just under observation, having suffered the proverbial flesh wound. The Tournament of Roses Parade had never gotten such high television ratings. So there was a silver lining to this, after all.
Opening the loft’s door, they were greeted by Frida Morales, who leapt up from the kitchen table, ran to Zerbe, and threw her arms around him. “Thank God, you’re all right! I saw what happened on TV! They said it was Noel, but I knew it was you! How did you escape?”
Gail maneuvered around Frida and Zerbe to slump on the sofa. Crush headed straight to the fridge.
“It’s a long story,” Zerbe said. He glanced at her wrist. She was wearing his ankle monitor like a bracelet. “What’s this?”
“Gail called me yesterday and said she had to leave,�
� Frida said. “I came over to walk the monitor. I didn’t want you to get caught.”
“Thanks. But didn’t you have to go to work?”
“I quit my job,” she said. “It feels great. That job wasn’t right for me.”
Zerbe looked at her blankly for a moment, thinking it over. “That means you’re not my parole officer anymore.”
Frida stepped away from him. “That’s right, K.C. We’ll have to come up with another reason to see each other twice a month.”
Zerbe’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times.
Crush, rummaging through the refrigerator, said, “Don’t we have any bacon? I wanted to make BLTs. We all need BLTs.”
In the end, they borrowed some bacon from a neighbor and Crush made lunch for everyone. They sat around the kitchen table, munching in silence.
“The arrows were wooden,” Crush said after he swallowed. “So they could pass through any metal detector. That’s clever. And I don’t think they even intended to kill Emil. They just wanted to make a statement.”
“But if the whole idea was to get the information out there,” Zerbe said, “about my grandfather and the Nazis, why shoot him before he said it?”
“I don’t know,” Crush said. “And why didn’t they release Angela and Noel and Donleavy when they said they would? And then not make any more demands? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Didn’t they find out anything from the guy who shot the arrows?” Frida asked. “The archer?”
Crush looked up at that. “Archer. What was that group you used to play bow and arrows with in prep school? The archery group.”
“The Roving Archers of Pasadena,” Zerbe said. “They were a bunch of real geeks. And, remember, this is me talking. I’m telling you, they were Society-for-Creative-Anachronism-style geeks. Real Renaissance Faire geeks.”
“Which one of you practiced with them the most?”
“Noel. And Renee, she was pretty good with a bow.” Zerbe stopped. “You don’t think…”
“I don’t know. But everybody who had something to do with Renee’s disappearance—you, Noel, Angela—you’ve all been targeted.”
“And you, Crush,” Zerbe said pointing to his arm. “Maybe those arrows were only shot at my father to bring you out into the open. Maybe they were really aiming for you.”
“But there were other people there,” Gail said, “that night at the Devil’s Gate Dam?”
“Yes,” Crush said. “Sonny Kraus. He killed himself. PTSD. And Evan Gibbard.”
“Is he okay?” Gail asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Can you call him?”
“He doesn’t believe in cell phones.” Crush checked the Felix the Cat clock over the stove. It was almost five o’clock. “But I have an appointment with him. In an hour.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It had started to rain. A light, misty shower that the rest of the country wouldn’t even notice but Angelenos call a downpour. It had just started to fall when Crush walked the long, narrow wooden pedestrian bridge on Flint Canyon Trail and turned onto Oak Grove Drive, where it ran over the top of Devil’s Gate Dam.
The dam curved slightly to the right. It was dark this time of year at six o’clock. A few streetlamps threw pools of light along the path, with splashes of darkness between them. The only other light came from passing headlights from the 210 Freeway, which ran parallel to the dam.
Evan Gibbard sat on the sidewalk in one of the dark patches between streetlights. As the headlights washed over him, he turned to look at Crush, and when the lights moved on, he seemed to vanish. When the next headlights hit him Evan was standing up, leaning against the concrete railing. The illusion that he had suddenly popped into another place, without even moving, gave Crush a chill. He brushed it aside. Evan wasn’t a ghost. That much he knew.
Crush walked into the light of a streetlamp and stopped. He let the light work for him.
“Did you come here alone?” Evan asked, though he could clearly see the empty road stretching off behind Crush.
“You said to.”
Evan stayed in the darkness. He was invisible one moment, and the next, the headlights showed that he had moved three steps closer.
“Well,” Crush said, “where are they?”
Evan stopped. “Who do you mean?”
“Angela. Noel. Donleavy. You know.”
Evan stepped into the edge of the light cast by Crush’s streetlamp. “What are you talking about?”
“I thought we came here for the truth?” Crush asked. “What’s the truth, Evan?”
Evan looked down at the rain falling on the curb. “It’s complicated.”
“This isn’t a Facebook status page. This is real life. This is as real as it gets.”
Evan opened his mouth as if to speak. Then shut it again.
“You can talk, Evan. Remember the ley lines. The Overlords can’t hear us.”
“I know that,” Evan snapped. “I’m not afraid of that.”
“What are you afraid of?”
Evan looked ahead. “You.”
Crush thought that he should be. But he gestured to his bandaged arm. “Why? Look at me.”
“Because you were there. You know.”
“Because I was where?” Crush spoke softly. So softly that Evan had to take another step toward him.
“Noel doesn’t remember,” Evan said. “Not really. He’s built himself new memories he likes better. K.C. was too afraid to remember anything. And Angela was too drunk. But you…you remember.”
Crush shook his head. “I don’t remember much.”
Evan leveled his eyes at Crush. “I’m glad you lied to me. It makes it easier.”
Crush did his best to look confused. “Okay. But really, where are they? Just tell me.”
“They’re safe,” Evan said.
Until that moment, Crush held out hope that Evan was just harmlessly crazy. Now he knew. He was anything but harmless. “Safe?”
“As long as the bullet train doesn’t go through.”
“But Emil said….”
Evan cut him off. “I don’t trust Emil Zerbe. As long as he’s alive he might make it happen.”
“And after he’s dead? Don’t you think other people will pick it up?”
Evan smiled. “Maybe. But they’ll have their own plans. Their own routes. It’ll be all right.”
Crush had so many questions running through his head. “So you’re going to keep holding them until Emil dies?”
“Which would have been much sooner if you hadn’t messed things up,” Evan snapped.
“I’m sorry,” Crush said. “How did you get the Targeted Individuals to work with you? Why did they do it?”
Evan looked impatient with Crush, as if he was a dull student in an advanced class. “Why did they do it? Because they had to. Emil Zerbe is one of the Overlords. We had to stop him. We had to make a statement.”
Crush lost his patience. “Are you really crazy? Or are you just pretending to be crazy so you can use them?”
Evan laughed. “You might ask the same thing about Sonny Kraus. Was he really crazy, or did he just kill himself to make us think he was crazy?”
Crush didn’t want to let himself be distracted. “Tell me why you’re doing this. Why do you care whether the bullet train is built or not? Is that part of the Overlords’ take-over-the-world plan?” He looked out into the darkness. He could feel the soft rain blowing over the Hahamongna Watershed and onto his face. Then it came to him.
“‘The GV is dead. The SG is out of the HSR,’” Crush said. “The GV stands for the Grapevine. This route. The one that goes up the Grapevine along the 210. That’s what you want to stop, isn’t it?” Evan stepped back into the darkness, and Crush knew he’d struck a nerve. “But why?” Crush went on. “Do you really care about that Least Bell’s bird?”
“Do you want to know the truth?” Evan asked, half in light, half in shadow.
“That’s why I came here.”
“Well, you have to kill me anyway, am I right?”
Evan grinned. “You’re right. Move.” He gestured with the gun.
“Where?”
He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shone it down the steep staircase that led to the Devil’s Gate. “There.”
“Oh, sure,” Crush said. “Can I have the flashlight, though? I might break my neck.”
Evan considered this. “I’ll chance that,” he said and gestured for him to move.
Crush walked to the end of the bridge, with Evan moving behind him, training the flashlight on the path. They climbed over the concrete railing and clambered down to the steep staircase that led to the bottom of the Arroyo Seco.
Treading carefully on the cement stairs, hoping the rain didn’t get worse, Crush said, “Say, why not tell me now,” as if to pass the time. “You can pretend you’re at a meeting.”
“A meeting?”
“You know,” said Crush, “a Targeted Individual meeting. Say it. My name is Evan and I’m….”
“A Targeted Individual,” Evan said completing the mantra. “Okay. I want to talk about it, actually. I’ve kept it in so long. And I know it will be safe to tell you.”
Why would it be safe? Crush wondered. “Because we’re at a meeting.”
“Sure,” Evan said, noncommittally. “You see, she wanted to run away. She wanted to start a new life.”
“Renee?” Crush asked.
But he just went on as if Crush hadn’t said a thing. “She came to us. To Sonny and me. We were good with fake IDs and all that stuff. She thought we could make her a new identity. Like a witness-protection program or something. Well, we didn’t know where to start, but we said ‘sure.’ We thought we’d make some shit up. The first step was to put her in a safe place. A motel room somewhere. Where we’d have her all to ourselves.”