by P. J. Zander
They both knew that was a constant and something they desperately needed to hold on to then.
They climbed the steep stairs to the loft bedroom. She stepped into the bathroom to change while he stripped down. When she came out, he had his head and shoulders raised on pillows with his eyes closed.
“Sorry for the short bed.” It was something she always said. If he stretched out, his ankles and feet would hang over the queen. She turned out the light.
He opened his eyes and in the darkness saw the silhouette of her still beautiful skier’s body, nude.
“I need you tonight, Rusty.”
She lay down on him and he pulled the down comforter over them. He kneaded the muscles of her back and buttocks until she threw off the cover and turned with her back against his chest, straddling his thighs with her hands behind her on his hips. He felt self-conscious about his rough, calloused hands as he gently traced her inner thighs and breasts with his fingertips. Raylene reassured him his hands were the right ones in the right place at the right time, then leaned forward, moving her hands to his thighs and drew him up and inside her, and took them through the haze, beyond the horizon, above the pain. It was their first time since the summer.
#
In the early morning hours, he’d awakened and not been able get back to sleep. Something kept working on him. The bartender had said that no one from Wrightwood was capable of kidnapping Jolene. No doubt he was right. This was a pretty tight community and everybody seemed to watch out for each other. So he could eliminate the mountain village and focus five thousand feet below. It sounded good. He rolled over and finally drifted off with his chest against Ray’s warm back.
#
They lazed in bed later than he’d wanted, sharing small talk.
“Oh, dang it. I completely forgot to print Ernie’s reports for you,” she said as she tossed off her side of the comforter, wearing only a flannel pajama shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbow. “I’ll do that right now.”
Smiling, he grabbed her hand before she rose. “Veto that. I really don’t need it right now. Let’s just enjoy each other for the little time we have this morning.” As she sat down on the bed, he continued. “Speaking of enjoying each other, won’t you reconsider staying with me in Laguna?”
“That just wouldn’t feel right, Rusty,” she said, a hand over his. “Jo and I have shared over twenty-five years here and now isn’t the time to leave, even temporarily.”
“Okay. I just thought you might enjoy a little beach-bumming. Not very high on the cultural scale but definitely warmer.” His attempt at levity drew a “tsk” from Raylene.
“Oh, the cold air is refreshing. You just have to give it a chance.”
Of course, even in Laguna, she’d be more or less on her own. For the most part, Banyan would be engaged in his pursuit of Jolene’s kidnappers and they both understood they might not be seeing much of each other.
While Ray showered, he stared at the laptop and printer in the alcove off the kitchen. Leaning against a stack of CDs was her address book. Out of curiosity, he picked it up and began finger-running from the back to the Ls when something in the Ms registered. Hearing her at the top of the stairs, he quickly found the L information he wanted and replaced the book. When she came down to the kitchen, he told her he had to get going.
“What do you think about taking Angeles Crest?”
She shook her head. “‘Open’ means if you have to use it. Play it safe in that big rig of yours and go the back way.”
A few minutes later Ray’s house was in his rearview mirror.
ELEVEN
Banyan studied the faded and chipped olive paint on the apartment’s façade after he rang the door bell. The weather extremes in Wrightwood could play havoc with external maintenance.
When he’d awakened at Ray’s, he’d immediately known that he had not been entirely lucid during his early morning cogitations. As clean and sound as excluding the Wrightwood locals had seemed at the time, he’d realized that, depending on the motive behind Jolene vanishing, he could be looking for the proverbial kid next door.
The door opened and the “Yeah” that came behind it was cut off when the short, beefy young man in baggy cargo pants, black hoodie and flat-billed cap cocked to one side got a good look at him.
“’Morning. Sean here?”
Without taking his eyes off Banyan, he stood with mouth agape for several seconds, then called over his shoulder, “Sean. Guy here to see you.”
Sean Lowry approached the door, but stopped abruptly when he saw the visitor. “Mr. . . . Mr. Banyan. What . . . why are you here?”
“Hello, Sean. Haven’t seen you in a while. Long as I was in town, just wanted to come by and chat with you about a few things before I head out of the mountains.” His eyes shifted to Sean’s roommate, then back to Sean.
“Yeah. Uh . . . sure. Hey, Nuckles, how about hitting the slopes early?” The other was already stuffing snowboarding gear into a backpack. “I’m on at noon. So, don’t bail until then.” Nuckles raised his hand showing the thumb and pinky hang-loose gesture, and was out the door as Banyan stepped aside.
He turned back toward Sean, extended his hand and asked, “Can I come in?”
“I’ve got to go to work soon,” he said quickly, tipping his head toward the red ski patrol jacket on the back of a chair. Then he sighed and took Banyan’s hand. “Okay.”
“Thanks, and don’t worry. I shouldn’t be here too long.” He parked on a straight-backed plastic chair that flexed under his bulk. Sean sat hunched on an old sofa, his forearms across his thighs, hands clasped. “Ski patrol takes a lot of tough training, doesn’t it?”
Without looking up, Sean answered detachedly. “Yeah, I’ve had the terrain of all three resorts wired for years and learned the technical rescue and emergency stuff pretty fast.” Then he raised his intense, blue eyes. “You’ve never been here before. Why now?”
Banyan had seen Sean at least a dozen times over the years, yet never really got to know the rugged skier with the neatly-trimmed, ash-blond hair. Brief conversations and “hi’s” and “see ya’s” hadn’t scratched the surface. Generally, he came across as good-natured, though on the serious side, and conscientious, and since his early teen years, always seemed to have a job—renting skis, bagging groceries, bussing tables. Sean was a Wrightwood lifer, born and raised.
“Well, I’ll tell you ‘why now’. I think you can help me.”
Sean was still leaning forward, but kept his eyes on Banyan’s. “Help you? With what?”
“Finding out what’s become of Jolene.” Banyan waited. Sean remained motionless, except for a blink. “You and Jolene grew up together, were steady friends for a long time, weren’t you? Maybe five, six years?” Sean’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. “More than steady friends, huh?” He paused when the ski patroller broke eye contact.
“You know she was my girlfriend and . . . yeah, special. Why are you asking these questions? This is like when the sheriffs were here in October. I answered all that stuff.”
“Since she disappeared, have you heard anything around town? Anybody talking about her in a way that didn’t seem right to you?”
Sean seemed to loosen up. “Well, sure. People talk about her but not as much now as right after it happened. Just locals saying how bad it was. Is.”
“Can you remember if you ever saw anybody not from around here last summer before she moved? Someone maybe interested in her?”
“No, not last summer. I hardly ever saw her after she . . . we broke up.” Sean’s face reflected the painful memory.
“Jo broke it off, what, about four years ago? That kind of cut deep, I bet. You still feeling it?”
Sean’s head was turned to the side, his eyes in a blank stare.
“Did she start dating someone else after she left you?
“I . . . I don’t know. I didn’t really pay attention. Didn’t follow what she did. That’s her business.”
B
anyan crossed his arms. “Really? I don’t think that’s true, Sean. I was there when you showed up at the house while we were packing Jo’s truck last August. You remember that, don’t you?”
He shifted his weight and leaned back on the sofa. His eyes narrowed.
“You said something about Jo and you being a pair, that it wasn’t right that she was leaving Wrightwood for college.” He noticed Sean biting his lower lip. “If you thought she was the only one for you, even after she called it quits, and then found out she was seeing someone else. . . .”
Sean suddenly rose and walked toward the front window, his back to Banyan. “It wasn’t like that. I just . . . I wanted her to stay here so we could talk about it.”
“But what was there to talk about? You hadn’t seen much of each other for quite a while and she’d told you, well, basically that you were just friends.” Sean hadn’t turned around to face him. “Were you jealous of another guy, Sean? Or maybe resentful of Jo for dumping you?”
He spun around, his face red, hands clenched at his sides. As he advanced, Banyan quickly stood. He’d never had a reason to feel intimated by the young man, but Sean, about six feet tall and rock-hard, was coming at him.
“Don’t do anything stupid, Sean. I’m just looking for answers.”
He raised his fists, boxer style, his rage-filled eyes glaring at Banyan who was anticipating a punch. But Sean couldn’t pull the trigger. The punch never came. “Get out of here,” he commanded.
They traded stares for a few moments before Sean turned and opened the door.
“One more question. Did you ever drive down to La Crescenta, to Jolene’s rented house?”
“Get out.”
Banyan studied him for a few seconds, and then nodded. “All right.” He dropped his card on the table and left.
#
Sean watched through the window as Banyan drove away. Then he went into the bedroom and took a photograph out of a drawer. He gazed at the image of Jolene before bellowing and driving his fist through the drywall.
TWELVE
The sky had changed from blue to gray between Wrightwood and La Crescenta. Looking at the house through a drizzle, Banyan inhaled deeply, trying not to imagine the horror that Jolene must have gone through. Except for the absence of yellow crime scene tape, everything looked the same as when he’d seen it in October. The gravel crunched under his shoes as he walked up the driveway and around to the east side of the house where the second bedroom window had been smashed. He recalled that almost all the glass in one fixed pane, about three feet high by two feet wide, had been broken out. Why would an intruder risk all that noise? On the other side of the house, her bedroom window had been open, maybe enough to provide undetected entry. But even if the bad guys thought that was just too close to her and that coming through the other one was safer, why not break just enough of it to reach in and unlatch the adjacent window for quieter access?
Studying the window, it came to him. What didn’t make sense was if Detective Marchessa was right, Jolene was surprised when attacked in her bedroom. She hadn’t reached for her gun. But with all the noise made by the breaking glass only fifteen or twenty feet away from where she slept, she would have heard, got her .22 out and fired at anyone coming through her bedroom doorway. One possibility was that they didn’t need to be quiet when they broke the glass because that occurred after she was grabbed—as a ruse. Two months earlier he’d checked the floor and seen no glass tracked toward Jo’s bedroom. They got in quietly some other way and that had to have been through the front door which Jolene would have locked every night when she went to bed.
#
Walking back to the truck, he looked up to see an elderly man just turn around at the corner of Briggs and Shields. He had a walking stick in each hand, white athletic shoes, a red exercise outfit and a black knit cap over very white hair. He was going back down Briggs, maybe turning at the halfway point of his exercise routine. The man was very trim and carried himself ramrod straight. Banyan noticed as he quickened his step to get closer that the walker was maybe a foot shorter than he. The man was passing the Tundra when he caught up.
“Good afternoon.” No response. He had to jog to get in front of the man who had quite a pace. “Good afternoon.”
“Well, good afternoon to you, sir.” The accent sounded Austrian or German.
“I couldn’t help but notice what good shape you’re in. You must exercise a lot.”
The man had an impish smile and his glacier blue eyes lit up against his tan face. “Why, yes, I walk here twice each day in the morning and afternoon.”
“I admire your discipline. You’re an inspiration.” He’d noticed a hearing aid so he upped his voice a few decibels.
“I’ve had it always. The discipline. I find that sticking to a daily schedule helps get through the days with some sense of purpose.”
Well, that one hit the nail on the head, thought Banyan, like he knew something about his past. “I guess it must help you keep up a little with what’s happening in the neighborhood, too.”
“Oh, yes, I see what my neighbors are doing on these walks, and from my front windows. Say, I hate to be rude, but I’d like to continue walking while my heart rate is up. I’ll be having afternoon tea when I get back to my house. How would you like to join me?”
“I’d like that. Thank you.” Banyan introduced himself and fell in beside him as they marched down the hill.
#
His house was on the corner of Briggs and Teasley, about ten minutes from the top at their pace. When they arrived, the man apologized for not introducing himself earlier. His name was Geert Hulsing, a retired mechanical engineer. The house was immaculate with nothing appearing out of place, and all frozen somewhere in the 1950s. While he made tea in the small, tidy, pale yellow kitchen, Banyan eyed dozens of framed photographs in the living room. He had put his host’s age at 75 or so, under 80 for sure. But studying the man’s life through the pictures, he figured he couldn’t have been much younger than his early nineties.
The first photo that caught his eye was of a beautiful fair-haired woman in her twenties. He assumed this was Hulsing’s wife, and from what he could tell she was not living in the house, if at all. He heard steps on the kitchen linoleum behind him.
“I see you found the diamond right away. My beloved gem, Ingrid, who was with me for thirty-six wonderful years. She shared my dream of coming back to the United States after the war. I lost her in 1985 to a cancer, the very year I retired from Bechtel Corporation. You can see why for all the years since, I have had to live an orderly, punctual life. Otherwise, I would simply surrender to the heartache of her loss.”
Banyan found this quite poignant and could understand the depth of his love, and loss. “I am sorry that she couldn’t spend more years with you, but it sounds like the years you had together were treasured, Mr. Hulsing.”
“They were treasured years, indeed. And please, call me Geert, Mr. Banyan. May I call you Rusty?”
“Yes, certainly. When you said your dream was to return to the United States, when were you here before?”
The slightly-built man came into the living room and pointed to one of the pale green, stuffed wing-chairs. “Do you have a moment? Please.” He sat in a matching chair with a small lamp table between them, facing the corner intersection out a bay window.
“In 1936 I was Leutnant zur See Hulsing aboard the cruiser Karlsruhe when we anchored in Los Angeles Harbor in the midst of a show-the-flag cruise in the Pacific. The ship’s officers were honored guests at Hindenburg Park in this area as part of a local German-American League cultural celebration. See that photo on the end?”
Banyan was dumbfounded. With swastikas decorating the park, here was a group of German naval officers resplendent in their dress uniforms conversing with the valley ladies and gentlemen hosting them within a couple miles of where he now sat.
“I see your surprise and I am ashamed of the flags. I despised the Third Reich and Hitler and h
is henchmen. The Nazi Party was an abomination. Since a little boy, all I wanted to do was sail, so I joined the navy.”
“I just had no idea,” Banyan said.
“Well, we Germans were not so lucky just a few years later. You see the next picture of the ship? That was taken as we began Operation Weserubung in the spring of 1940, part of Task Force 4 with three torpedo boats invading Norway.” The man was sharp as a tack. “We had troops aboard, our captain, Friedrich Rieve, conned the ship into southern Norway early in the morning of April 9. In the evening, we were underway again from Kristiansand to return to Germany. We had no idea that the HMS Truant was waiting for us. Soon our entire crew was fighting for its life in the frigid waters of the North Sea after a direct torpedo hit from the British submarine. We survivors were rescued by a German torpedo boat which scuttled our crippled ship just before midnight.” His eyes never left the photograph of the ship as he described the event as if he were transported back to the deck of the Karlsruhe and the war. “So, my life was spared and I was able to immigrate to your country in 1949 at the age of 32, and start my life over.”
The only sound was the kettle whistling on the stove.
“That’s quite a story you lived to tell, Geert. Can I get the tea? The water is boiling.”
“Oh, thank you. My hearing is not very good. Please stay seated. You are my guest.” As he got up to go into the kitchen, he asked, “And, what about you, Rusty? Did you serve your country?”
He wasn’t sure if there was an expectation in the question. “Yeah, I was in the navy, too.” He didn’t think about it too often, and hadn’t even told Raylene many details. But he’d said it quietly, and the older man hadn’t heard.
Returning, Hulsing placed a tray complete with tea service and bottle of schnapps on the table and offered Banyan a shot of the alcohol in his tea. He passed.