Halfway House

by Weston Ochse

  “They liked her just fine, but they didn’t understand Santeria. They thought it was a Caribbean version of Catholic. They didn’t understand the African roots and the seriousness of the spells. The priests thought she was just a midwife with some country remedies. Even now they don’t know.”

  He watched her carefully as he asked, “Are you Santeria, Abuela?”

  She crossed herself three times. “Only a little and only what was passed to me by my mother. Like the Bruja, our family has roots in Africa. But we don’t do selfish things, you and I. We try and help when we can, but don’t do things that the church wouldn’t want us to.”

  “Only a little?”

  “A spell here and there. Sometimes we can read people and tell what they’re thinking. Your mother was especially good at that. She never let on to your father, but she knew he was going to ask her to marry him before he asked. She kept putting him off for weeks, never letting him ask her, always finding a way to change the subject. She wanted the moment to be perfect and waited until the anniversary of the Bruja’s death, when the energies were the most powerful. He asked her that night. You were made that night.” She reached out and touched Lucy on the cheek. “She knew the moment you were conceived. She was so happy.”

  “So you actually met the Bruja?”

  “Oh, yes. We’d go see her on Saturdays then go to church on Sundays. She was a beautiful woman. I remember that she always wore a simple white dress with a red ruby necklace.”

  Lucy shook his head and grunted. “Hard to believe she’s so evil now.”

  Abuela shrugged. “She didn’t mean to be. If her daughter hadn’t been killed she never would have changed. The death of her daughter made her hate, and it was the hate that ate up all of her goodness.”

  “And you think I’ll end up like her?”

  “No. Like I said, I shouldn’t have compared you.” She spat between two fingers and crossed herself again. “Listen, Louis. She’s as evil as anything is evil. She ate her own soul to give her this power. She ate Laurie’s soul and a million souls in between. It’s time that you took care of San Pedro’s biggest problem. You might find that all of your other problems sort themselves out after this.”

  Lucy stared at his abuela for a full minute. Her face was a mask of concern. He’d need to think about what she said. He doubted his other problems would sort themselves out, no matter what he did. This was a new problem, and one he couldn’t ignore. Split’s soul was out there somewhere and if Lucy was any kind of leader, he’d take care and make sure it didn’t get eaten by a dead witch.

  Chapter 27

  Bobby spent the night at the cove alone with a bottle of Cluny, his thoughts, the knowledge of his father, and the great wide ocean. Long into the night he cried for himself and for what he’d never have. Then he cried for Laurie, tears of selfish love and loss twisting away in the onshore breeze. Then he cried for Kanga.

  Sometime just before dawn, Mark Nunez found him shivering next to the long-dead fire, nearly hypothermic from the cold and wind. The stout martial arts instructor carried Bobby to his car and drove him to the studio. After a pot of coffee and some warm bread from the Croatian bakery next door, Bobby was almost back to normal.

  Mark left him there and ran some errands. While he was gone, Bobby cleaned up in the shower and changed into a spare martial arts gi while his jeans and T-shirt tumbled in the washer. A desk with a computer, a telephone and a stack of martial arts books sat near the front window. Bobby turned on the machine. While it booted, he glanced out the window. Still circling in front of the halfway house were the strange triplets, the one-armed man, Kanga and the others.

  Bobby had an idea.

  He opened a web browser and searched for obituaries of San Pedro residents. He got thousands of results. Then he sorted them by date of relevance. In a city this size there were dozens of deaths each day. So where were the relatives? Looking at all of those who’d died and at those in front of the halfway house, it was clear that not everyone had come to speak with the dead. Should he call them and tell them? How crazy was that idea?

  Searching back, he found Laurie’s obituary. Laurie May Jenkins passed today from wounds sustained from a car accident. He could only read the first sentence before he retreated from the announcement and checked other deaths. His chest was tight as he scanned the names and descriptions. Then he saw one he’d been looking for.

  Desmond Brian Howard of Long Beach perished in the waves off San Pedro, Tuesday, while surfing. Son of Brian and Rebecca Howard of Crestline, Desmond Howard was training for the Brummel Beach Invitational, for which he was one of three Americans invited. He is survived by his parents, wife, Johanna, and daughter to be, Rebecca Jo.

  Johanna and daughter to be, Rebecca Jo. Bobby gazed through the glass at the pregnant woman sitting on the ground, her eyes fixed to the sky, spittle running down her cheek. She looked like a crack addict in thrall to a dragon high, but Bobby knew better. Like Kanga and the others, she was communicating somehow with those spirits of the dead; in Johanna’s case it was Desmond Howard.

  Didn’t she have any other family? How healthy was it for her to be sitting on the concrete in front of a halfway house with a baby nearly due?

  Bobby flipped through the phonebook, searching through the Howards until he found a listing for Desmond Howard. He dialed the number, hoping someone would answer. On the fifth ring someone picked up.

  “Howard residence.”

  “Hi. I’m looking for the home of Desmond Howard, who passed away last week. Is this the right number?”

  “This is the right number.”

  “I wanted to talk to someone about Johanna.”

  “Jo? What do you know about her? Do you know where she is? Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m Jimmy Hixon,” he said, dredging the name from his past. “Listen, I think I’ve seen Ms. Howard and was checking to see if she was missing. Maybe I shouldn’t even be calling. Who am I speaking with?”

  “This is Becca, her sister. Where is she, Mr. Hixon?”

  “She’s on South Pacific Avenue in front of the halfway house. Know where that is?”

  “No, we’re not from here. We came for the funeral, but haven’t been able to find Johanna for days. We’ve been worried sick.”

  “Did you file a police report?”

  “We did, but they thought she was just mourning and would come back, so I don’t know how hard they looked.” Shouting to someone away from the phone, “Tom! I have a guy on the phone who says he knows where Jo is!”

  “You should get down here and get her,” Jimmy said. He gave directions and right before he hung up he added cryptically, “You might want to bring the police. They might not let her go.”

  “What do you mean they—?”

  He hung up the phone. When he’d called, he hadn’t known what he was going to say. Now that it was over, all he could do was wait with barely contained anticipation.

  It took half an hour for someone to show. In the meantime, he changed back into his clothes. They didn’t get the full dryer cycle and were still a little damp. But they were clean, which was what mattered. When he finally heard the sirens he stepped outside. Two police cars stopped in front of the halfway house. The curbs along either side of the street in every direction were crammed with parked cars. As the cops stepped out of their cruisers, lights still flashing, traffic immediately began to stack up behind them. A tall, thin woman, who must be Becca, came running down the street with her arms outstretched. Her husband Tom jogged behind her, his eyes assessing the situation.

  “Johanna!”

  The gray-garbed wardens, who’d been trying to figure out what was going on, suddenly snapped into action. Several began to herd the people into the house, while a pair of them approached the four police officers. By the time the police and the wardens met, everyone had been taken inside except the pregnant woman, who was the object of a tug of war between the slim woman and another warden.

  “Giv
e me back my sister!”

  “Let her go, bitch!”

  Before the police could react, Tom delivered a right cross that had begun somewhere in Phoenix and ended on the tip of the warden’s chin. A pair of police officers rushed toward the couple. Tom held up both of his hands and shrugged before he bent down and helped the pregnant woman to her feet.

  “Johanna, we’ve been looking everywhere for you, honey.”

  “Ma’am,” began one of the police officers, “please let this woman go until I can sort out the situation.”

  Becca whirled on the cop. “I’m the one who called you. This woman is my sister. We filed a missing persons report three days ago and somehow you failed to see her here on the sidewalk of a busy street.” As if to aid her, the cars behind the stopped police cruisers began to honk. “How can you miss a pregnant woman sitting on the sidewalk?”

  “I want to file assault charges,” the warden said, getting to his feet.

  “Then I want to file kidnapping charges,” Tom snapped, taking the full weight of Johanna as his wife began to jab her finger at the cop.

  “Why don’t you do your job and arrest these men?” she said.

  “But they haven’t done anything, ma’am.”

  “Didn’t you see them trying to pull her in the house with the others? Don’t you remember all the people here? Where are they now? Are they kidnapped?” She glanced back to her husband. “They don’t even know. Come on, honey, let’s get Jo home and get her cleaned up.”

  “Wait a minute,” the cop said, one hand on his gun. “Do you want to file charges?” He looked from Becca to Tom and then back the warden. The warden shook his head.

  “Can we go now?”

  The cop nodded and Becca grabbed one of her sister’s arms, and with the help of Tom, helped Johanna down the block.

  “Go get their information before they go,” the police sergeant said to his partner.

  Bobby, who’d witnessed the whole scene, approached the remaining three policemen. “What about those they took inside?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Bobby Dupree. I’ve been watching this place and those men won’t let them go.”

  “That’s just ridiculous,” a warden said. “We’re state employees. We’re not kidnappers.” He pulled out his wallet and showed an ID card.

  “What about that woman?”

  “I don’t know anything about her. I suppose my men thought she belonged here. We usually don’t have a problem with people wanting to get into the halfway house. It’s usually the other way around.”

  “But what about those you hid inside?” Bobby persisted.

  “They’re all wards of the state and here for a reason. Many of them need this place to help them reintegrate into society.”

  “But my friend’s in there.”

  “I don’t think so, unless he was just released from detention.”

  “He’s not a criminal. His daughter died. He thought he was speaking to her...” Bobby stopped before he appeared too crazy. “Can’t you check inside, sir? I swear my friend is in there.”

  The cops, who seemed barely able to keep up with the conversation, looked from Bobby to the warden, who held his hands out helplessly.

  “Sorry. Because of the nature of the privacy laws, if you boys want to come inside you need a warrant. There’s nothing I can do without it.”

  Bobby wanted to wipe the self-satisfied smile from the warden’s face. Kanga was inside and he couldn’t even prove it.

  More horns began to honk. Several commuters shouted for the cops to move out of the way. He saw it in their eyes before they did it. They’d lost interest.

  “Listen, if you want to file a complaint, come down to the station. Otherwise, you need to leave this place alone.” To the other cops he said, “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Within seconds they’d pulled away, relieving the traffic pressure. Bobby stood and stared at the warden, who stared back. Their hatred was palpable. It was the warden who finally spoke.

  “You were going to say soul.”

  Then he turned on his heel and entered the halfway house. When he closed the door, Bobby was left alone outside. Eventually he glanced to the sky, his eyes searching.

  “Laurie?” he whispered. “Are you there?”

  He waited half a minute until he began to feel foolish. He was about to leave when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Bobby?”

  He whirled around, surprise and fear in his eyes.

  * * *

  A man stood before him. A long scar tortured his right cheek, drawing the lips into a permanent smile. Three blue ink teardrops dripped from his left eye. He wore a light gray double-breasted suit, red tie, red handkerchief in the breast pocket. If it wasn’t for the long hair, the tattoos and scars, the man could have stepped off the set of a Cary Grant movie. This was no ghost of Laurie. This was someone he hadn’t expected to ever see again.

  Vincent Macklin, Marley’s son.

  “Looks like you need some backup,” Vincent said.

  “They have Kanga inside and won’t let him go.”

  “I know.”

  “I have to get him out of there.” Bobby turned and gestured to the surrounds of the house. “This shit is crazy. Survivors talking to souls. A dead witch. And these wardens who keep everyone under wraps.”

  “I know, I know,” Vincent said, nodding his head. He seemed preternaturally calm.

  “Then come on, let’s do something about it.”

  “Not a good time. Come with me, Bobby Dupree. We need to make some plans.”

  Bobby was having trouble believing this man meant well. His gaze dropped to the teardrops.

  Vincent brought up a hand and gestured to his tattoos. “These are from another time. Right now, I’m on your side. My father wants to help Kanga. I agree that there’s something wrong, but we can’t just go in without a plan. We need to talk about it and figure out what we’re going to do.”

  Bobby hesitated, but only for a second. He had a feeling that if Vincent wanted to hurt him, he could have figured a better way to do it than on a busy public street.

  They walked half a block and got into a silver Lexus. Vincent pulled into traffic and headed toward the harbor. He made one short call, but otherwise drove in silence. Within minutes they’d arrived at their destination. Ports of Call was a two-block long contiguous group of restaurants right on the water of L.A. Harbor. Bobby had eaten there just once and marveled at the amount of shrimp they could pile on a tray.

  Vincent ushered him inside. Through crowds that were a mix of Mexican extended families and upwardly mobile yuppie couples, they angled for a table near the water. As Bobby approached, he examined the single occupant, who was wheelchair bound. He could tell by the long legs that ended at the foot rests that the man had once been tall. His skin was drawn tight over broad shoulders. A shock of blond hair broke from his head like a rogue wave. Still handsome, his bronze-tanned face reminded Bobby of Ron Ely. But a world-weariness had set into the slope of his shoulders and the frown tugging at the edges of his lips. Only his eyes spoke of the life he’d once lived. They were alive with the excitement one holds in a dead man’s grip while riding the crest of a wave. And as they looked at Bobby, he felt a tingle of that excitement and knew the man’s power.

  Vincent showed him to a chair, then sat beside the man.

  “Bobby, this is my father, Marley Macklin.”

  They exchanged greetings and a few pleasantries until Boonie and Woody arrived, carrying mugs of beer and two cafeteria trays piled impossibly high with sautéed shrimp, onions and green peppers. They sat, making the table a tight fivesome. Marley, Boonie and Woody dove into the food, taking deep droughts of beer and peeling shrimp as fast as they could.

  Vincent sat back and watched Bobby, occasionally popping a piece of shrimp and following it with a sip of beer The background buzzed with the constant hum of goodwill, families talking, and children laughing.
Somewhere nearby a mariachi band played. Bobby felt himself relaxing for the first time in days. Marley finally sat back, wiped his face and hands, took a deep drought of beer, and began the conversation.

  “You have some manners, Bobby Dupree. Is it true what they say of you, that you were raised in an orphanage in Memphis?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “My mother and father are both dead,” Bobby said, deciding that he didn’t want to divulge the whole truth in present company.

  “So sorry,” Marley said, smiling sadly. After a moment, he added, “You seem to have made yourself into quite a young man. Hardship tends to do that to people.”

  “If it doesn’t break them first,” Vincent added.

  Vincent’s comment caused everyone to pause. Bobby spoke up next. “I have Sister Agnes to thank for that.”

  “That we all had a Sister Agnes.” Marley lifted his mug. “To the sister.”

  The others joined Marley in his toast, took a sip of beer, then resumed their feasting.

  “I had a sister help me in Australia when this happened.” He gestured to the wheel chair. “Without her, I never would have survived. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to die. I’ve never been religious, even after everything that happened to me; but I can’t help but respect other people’s beliefs and how it forms them.”

  Bobby nodded. “She never had any children of her own, but a thousand of us thought of her as our mother. I owe her my life.”

  “Aye, Bobby. There are those out there who are selfless and willing to help. I think if it weren’t for their kind, we’d drown ourselves in our own sin and evil. Thank God for them all.”

  They paused as a Carnival Love Boat floated by on its way to Ensenada. Three thousand people lined the decks with the excitement of a sea voyage burning through their veins. Many cheered and waved. Bobby laughed as he realized his own juxtaposition. He’d love to stop traveling and find a home. To belong was his driving force. These people wanted the freedom of not belonging to anything for a while.