John doesn’t say a thing but keeps an icy stare straight ahead. I fix my own disbelieving gaze on the headlines again.
“John? Isn’t that the place?”
“Shhh!” He sits up closer to listen.
“Neighbors reported hearing noises in the early hours this morning, July first, but dismissed them as primal screams common to the residents of 8763 Wonderland Avenue. Reportedly, there is one survivor in critical condition.”
Oh God! I’ve been in front of that house. Many times…I sat right there. I note the spot where the news crew is parked. This is really bad.
At the end of the broadcast, John hops up and spins through the channels, until he finds another station headlining the murders. He watches, glued intently to the screen.
“John? You had a dream,” I tell him, fighting the sinking feeling in my gut.
“Huh? What?”
“A dream. A nightmare. When you were sleeping.”
His face drains pale, and his eyes bulge like a hungry bulldog’s.
“You were screaming, ‘Blood! Blood! So much blood!'” I imitate the pitch of his voice.
He jumps in quickly, “Oh, I, uh, the trunk…the trunk of the car. I was lifting the trunk and hit my nose. Gave myself a nosebleed.” His story babbles out fast and awkward. It is too much information, a blatant lie. The hair on my skin rises, warning me to not press the issue…about anything. John lights one cigarette after the other; the blue haze floats heavy and thick on the filtered sunlight. He checks every window and door, becoming more paranoid and twitchy as news channel after news channel blasts the “four on the floor” murders, the “Wonderland killings.”
For a few days, we lie low. John’s demeanor leaves no room for discussion. The cocaine is gone. The money is gone. I don’t want to know what else he knows. If I don’t ask, it won’t be real. I try to bend reality, but the truth is biting at our heels, relentless, like a rabid Rottweiler. Too many questions creep their way into my thoughts. Big questions like Who did this? and Are they coming for us? I wonder also if John had anything to do with it. My stomach curls and skin crawls as I remember John’s ranting about the Wonderland gang: “I hate those motherfuckers in there. I’ve met some shitheads in my life, but those assholes…they’re fucking scum.”
It is too late to admonish myself for coming back. I am here, and there’s nothing I can do to change that, but I have no hope or clue as to what to do next. I wait for John’s backup plan, his ace in the hole; I wait to hear from him that things aren’t that bad—but the words never come.
John is empty inside, struggling to regroup, and has nothing comforting to say.
It is obvious to me that we’ll have to do something soon, but not just yet. I want to leave—run from LA anyway, like we planned. “We can find jobs in another state, John. We don’t need money yet. Let’s just go.”
But he wants to keep his ear to the ground instead. He needs to find out how deep this rabbit hole goes. “We can’t. They’ll find us.” John rips the skin off the side of his fingernail.
“Who are they, John?”
“Shhh. Stop!” The horror in his eyes is unmistakable, and his face contorts as if to say, You know damn well who. Then I realize he has to stay loyal to Eddie.
We eat fast food from the local joints, paying with the small amount of cash John left me before the murders. He dashes outside, incognito, his shirt wrapped around his head, dark glasses covering his eyes, ducking behind cars and nasty brown Dumpsters, while I guard the door.
The room stays dark; our only light, the changing greenish glow from the television, on constantly those few days without sound. We turn the volume up to be barely audible when flashes of the “four on the floor” air on the hour, and we become more attentive to the bumps and bangs on the streets outside.
On the afternoon of July fourth, it is muggy and hot and we sit naked on the bed in the harsh glare of the silent screen on the wall. Some time has gone by, and we are more relaxed, the strained edge of tension having eased a bit with the passing days. Thor snuggles warmly between John’s legs beneath the sheets, while I face him, brushing off an emery board to do his nails. We wait for the ten o’clock news to come on. My wet hair hangs loosely down my back; it’s the only way I can cool myself in this stifling summer heat. John’s eyes are glued to the soundless television. Our senses are alert to every detail of our surroundings. There is not a sound, except the steady shhicckk, shhicckk, shhicckk of the rough file against John’s nails.
BLAM! An explosion rocks our room.
“A shot!” I can feel my skin split and my ears crack. I leap full force into John’s lap and grab at his chest. “We’re dead!” My eyes squeeze shut, my breath immobile, as I wait for a bullet to penetrate my flesh.
“Freeze!”
Clutching to John’s slippery skin, I squint and sneak a quick look. In the place where our door once stood several bulletproof-vested police officers are poised and aiming their nine millimeters at our heads.
“We mean it, Johnny! Don’t move! You either, young lady! Dawn, is it? Don’t move. Both of you or…we’ll shoot!”
BOOM…BOOM…BOOM…BOOM…BOOM! The shots are like thunder ripping through my head. All sound disappears except the steady, terrified pounding of my heart.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nothing up His Sleeve
The interrogation room in the downtown Los Angeles Police Department is a small, dirty-beige, cement block square with a bare wooden table and a few chairs in the center. A two-way mirror runs the length of the wall next to the entrance, reminding me that I am being watched.
Wearing a pair of Levi’s jeans and one of John’s oversized shirts, I shiver from the cool air-conditioning and the ripples of diminishing adrenaline exiting my system. My hands are trembling, folded on the table, as I wait for someone to come in and book me into jail. My thoughts surge at me, relentless, and I can’t escape the exploding flashbacks of our arrest.
Blurred faces, guns, and uniforms draped with bulletproof vests race toward us from either side of the bed. There is chaos, confusion—our motel room door is shattered, flattened in the middle of the carpet, the frame a wooden, splintered mess. Naked and frozen with fear, John and I are shuffled around puppetlike as the dozen or so officers carefully and methodically separate us.
They take John into the bathroom first to search and dress him. “Do you have anything on you you’d like to tell us about? Drugs, weapons—anything?”
“No, uh, no. Nothing,” he tells them, his arms in the air. He is nervously polite, trying to control his jerky body movements.
John came back from the big run empty-handed—not even a crumb—except for the Valium. I think he won’t have anything on him, but I wonder if he saw Sharon before he came back to the motel somehow.
Two female officers step up to surround me. “Can you step into the bathroom with us, ma’am? We need to search you.”
They guide me into the bathroom. One of the officers brushes her hand under my hair and between my legs, gives the all clear, and hands me my clothes.
“My dog? Where’s my Chihuahua, Thor? He’s scared. Let me get him. Please.”
A small cage appears from another officer at the door. “Call him out, ma’am. Don’t touch him; just call him out.”
Thor is under the bed, frightened, shaking fiercely, his face appealing to me for help. But I’m not allowed to comfort him, only to call to him for a uniformed stranger to put him in a cage.
Amidst a bustling crowd of plainclothes and uniformed detectives and officers, John is taken out in handcuffs. He stalls for a moment at the door, and we lock eyes. For that split second, he looks as if he wants to cry. I do. What did you do, John? What did you do?
Like a sad-faced clown on a velvet background, John scrunches up his face anxiously. “I love you,” he mouths as he is escorted out in the baking afternoon heat to a waiting police car. Thor and I follow separately.
Left alone in the small, sterile room for ho
urs, I hear the half-glass, half-metal door finally open with a heavy creak-thud that echoes in the tiny space. Two plainclothes men step up, pull out a chair, and take a seat at the opposite side of the table.
“Hello, Dawn.” The first one introduces himself. He is of average height, has a round face, a brown receding hairline, and a grim expression. “I’m Tom. Tom Lange…and this is my associate Frank Tomlinson.” There’s a pause. “Do you know why we’re here?” He glares at me, a serious, dark, mud-eyed stare.
“No.” My gut aches. Stabbing pains like a thousand tiny knives pierce through my psyche. So many images race through my brain, but I know. I know this is about the people at Wonderland. Still, I stay quiet.
“This is very serious, Dawn. Very, very serious.” He pauses again.
I nod.
“You’re John’s girlfriend, right? How long have you two been together?”
“Um…five years.”
He clears his throat and raises an eyebrow. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
Frank Tomlinson, a younger, fuller-haired version of Lange, shakes his head.
“Well…maybe we can ask you a few questions. Do you mind looking at some photos also?”
“Sure.”
Detectives Lange and Tomlinson are stone-faced, cold, seasoned interrogators. They watch me—my face, my movements—for any reaction or clue that can give them a lead. They divulge nothing, not letting on why I am being held, and lay down a random assortment of pictures. Lange flips through the stack. They are people I don’t recognize in front of the house on Wonderland—a place I do recognize. Then there is a picture of Eddie Nash, and I feel sick.
“Do any of these people look familiar?”
“No,” I lie, trying to shake my head believably.
“Where have you been this last week?”
The brick of cocaine in John’s briefcase, Sally’s house, and the motel before John left for his big deal scorch their way into my memory. Oh God, they want me to rat John out. I can’t say anything.
“In the motel.” My words are small, insignificant.
“With John?”
“Yes.”
“Was John with you the whole time?”
“Well, uh, mostly. He went out to get food and stuff.” I try to skirt the truth.
“Do you know why you’re here, Dawn?” Lange slams his palms down on the desk.
“No.”
“Murder!”
Hot sweat pushes its way through the cold pores of my skin; I swallow hard and look up at Tom Lange, pleading. “Murder? I…”
“John’s in big trouble this time. He’s not going to get out of this one that easy!”
“Who—?”
Detective Lange cuts me off. “All right, Dawn. That’s all we got for you for now.”
“John?”
“Oh, ha, Johnny boy? He’s not going anywhere. Naw, naw, naw. He’s gonna be around for a long time.” They push the wooden chairs back under the table, a long scraping noise that runs through my spine.
I bite my tongue. In my mind I remember the contorted look and fear in John’s eyes as he was being hauled off. I know he is scared. “My dog, Thor…Is he okay?”
“Ha! Yeah. He’s all right. Cute little fellow—knows just whose locker to piss on too.” Detective Tomlinson chuckles. During his short stay, Thor has become a mini-celebrity with the officers at the station. I try to smile. “Do you have anywhere to go?”
“No. Well…only one place…maybe…to Sharon’s.”
“Sharon Holmes'?” He thinks for a moment. “Yeah. John mentioned that. Let’s see if we can get you and your dog a ride, then.”
A uniformed officer brings Thor into the interrogation room. Panting for breath and scratching to get out of the cage, he wags his tail and frantically spins in circles when he sees me.
“All right. You’re free to go. We can give you a ride, if you like.” Detective Tomlinson motions for me to follow him.
Thor compulsively licks my arm and makes whiny grunting noises. I stroke his trembling, now-graying brown coat, tuck him under my oversized shirt, and exhale a heavy sigh. “It’s been a long time. I hope Sharon lets us in, boy,” I whisper into his furry little ear.
Harsh sunlight spills into the patrol car on the drive to Glendale the day after the Fourth of July. There were no fireworks or celebration at the precinct. In fact, there has been no celebration of anything for me in a long time. Tomlinson and the uniformed officer make some kind of political joke that I don’t understand, but I’m only drifting in and out of their conversation anyway. I’m feeling the quiet familiar streets of my past welcome me back. It’s Sunday. Sharon will be home.
We pull up to the cottages, as I’ve done a thousand times before, and I steel myself. Tomlinson watches from the sidewalk as I hesitantly approach the porch of Sharon’s now-peeling, faded house, and I knock. What if she doesn’t answer like that night with the hitchhiker? For a split second, that horrible evening sends a haunting shiver through my soul.
The dogs are barking furiously. Thor wiggles wildly in my arms and yips. “All right! All right!” Sharon’s lilting voice tries to calm them. Her dark gaze peeks quickly through the lace curtains, piercing me straight in the eye like a brown bullet, then disappears. Uncertain as to what she might do, I start to pray, imagining her disapproving, reluctant expression behind the door. The dead bolt clicks, and the knob turns.
“Hi.” I clutch Thor, now squirming, and wish he’d be still.
“Helloooo?” she drawls as if to say, This should be interesting.
It takes me a few seconds to find my bearings and the right words. “Sharon. We were arrested…John and I. They kept him…the police…they brought me here. I, I have nowhere else to go.”
“What…? Come in.” She sounds unhappy yet resigned.
I wave to Detective Tomlinson and step in.
“I thought you were in Oregon, Dawn.” Sharon lights a cigarette and squints through the rising smoke.
“I was. I was there for five months. I worked as a CNA again. But…well…” I trail off, hating what I’m about to say. “John talked me into coming back and…you know…I came back.” The words are hollow. I have nothing to say that will make my actions seem reasonable. Nothing to offer that makes sense…other than…I love him…But that all-consuming first love is really just an aching, confused memory—one that, despite the pain, I’ve been hoping to bring back to life for a couple years now. That’s why I came back—because the love is supposed to come back. But she knows all this, I think.
Sharon stubs out her cigarette and lights another. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, Sharon. The police busted down the door. There were guns pointed at us. First I thought a bomb went off and we were dead! They took us into the station and kept me in a room for hours, asking questions about people. They said it was about murder!”
She watches me intently through the acrid haze of her smoke. “All right. Well…” She sighs deeply. “Did they say he did it?”
I am shocked at her question. “No! They didn’t. They only said it was about murders. They showed me pictures of people I didn’t know and the house where they found the bodies bludgeoned a few days ago.” My voice is shaking. I don’t want to tell her I’ve been at that house, or about Eddie.
“What bodies? Where?”
“On Wonderland. It’s been all over the news.” I motion for her to turn on the television.
“Wait. Wait.” Sharon’s hands shoot up to her temples, and her thumbs rub circles hard into her scalp. She shakes her head to regroup. “Wait. Okay. Let’s see. First things first: when’s the last time you’ve eaten?”
“Uh, I don’t know. Since before we were arrested, I guess.”
“All right. You find the news, and I’ll get you something to eat.”
The rest of the day we are glued to the television and the headlining murders. We’re interrupted only by the dogs, John L and Pokie, who obliviously pl
ay tug-of-war with an old sock while Thor barks and nips at their heels. There isn’t any news of John’s arrest yet, and we can only speculate why. Sharon pulls out one of my nightgowns that she has packed in a corner dresser of my old room, and we change. The evening falls somberly, not much more said between us, cigarettes and a dim sense of routine from our past keeping us sane.
It is late; the stress is exhausting. Sharon digs into her stash of Valium from the bathroom drawer for us to get some sleep. We decide to make a last surf through the channels for the eleven o’clock news. The phone rings. We jump. John.
Sharon walks stiffly over to the small wooden telephone table and lifts the handle of the red rotary phone. “Hello? Yes.” There is a pause. “Hi. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Now calm down…I don’t have that kind of money, John! Yes, she’s here. Just a minute.” Sharon hands me the phone, her face drawn and worried.
“Hello.”
“Baby. Listen, please. You two gotta help me!”
“Okay, John. How?”
“Listen. I’m in jail, and I only got a minute. Someone just threatened to kill me! You have to get me out!”
“John. I don’t have any money. What…?”
“Can’t you and Sharon scrape something up? Sell something? I don’t know…Just do it. If I’m in here much longer, I’ll die!”
“Okay. I’ll ask…”
“I gotta go, baby. Baby, please…I love you!”
“I love you too, John.”
Click.
Sharon lets out an audible sigh as I hang up the phone. Snapping open her needlepoint cigarette case, she lights another and sits down to think.
“He says he’s going to be killed if we don’t do something!”
“He told me. I don’t know what he expects us to do about it. He’s already stolen everything of value I have. Everything of Grandma’s—her china, her silver—and I’ll be damned if he thinks I’m going to my parents or anyone else again for a loan!”
I don’t know about Sharon’s things being missing, but I know John is a thief. My jewelry, missing items from Michelle’s, the suitcase at the airport…I recall a time I heard the dogs in the background when John was on the phone with me in Oregon. Still, I feel as if we have to do something. “He sounds scared, Sharon.” I’m out on a limb. “I believe him. There are bad people out there.”
The Road Through Wonderland Page 38