Try Darkness

by James Scott Bell

“Experience tells me there’s always a way.”

  124

  NEXT I WENT to the Lindbrook and found Oscar in the lobby, reading a newspaper as usual. Disco Freddy was rehearsing a new number in the far corner. A couple of other guys played chess near the window.

  I sat with Oscar and asked if he’d found anybody who’d seen a guy in a Rasta hat.

  “No one,” he said. “Or they’re not telling. But I been thinking about this case. Thinking about it ’cause they’re not giving it a lot of priority, are they?”

  “The police?”

  “This ain’t what you’d call a high-profile case. But it’s a dead woman, same as any other. A stiff in Beverly Hills doesn’t have any advantage.”

  “Except money.”

  “Last time I looked they don’t put U-Hauls on the back of hearses.”

  “So nothing to report?”

  “Think this out with me for a second.” He leaned forward, his eyes intense. “Somebody goes to 414, knocks on the door, talks quietly, then kills Reatta. That has to mean a couple of things.”

  “She knew him,” I said.

  “Let him in. Now, the girl’s in the closet.”

  “It’s her little room, where she goes to play or sleep.”

  “And she doesn’t make any noise.”

  “Kylie didn’t think much of it. She sees the guy through the door, but nothing seems strange. Which means guys have come and gone before. Maybe it was a buy.”

  Oscar shook his head. “She didn’t look like a user to me.”

  “Turning a trick?”

  “That could very well be.” He said it sadly, like it was something that happened all too often at place like the Lindbrook.

  “You found anyone who saw a guy come in matching the description?” I asked.

  “Nope. Not even the elf in the window.” He nodded toward the Plexiglas.

  “It was someone with access,” I said. “Came in from the alley, then went up the stairs. Coming in through the front, somebody would have remembered.”

  “So who’d have access?”

  “People who own the place, or the people they hire.”

  “Which probably means a lot of people.”

  Before I could say anything else I was aware of a guy standing next to us. He was maybe sixty, wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a T-shirt with a very unflattering word attached to a certain prominent Democratic senator.

  “This the guy?” he said to Oscar.

  “That’s him,” Oscar said. “This is Clyde. Clyde, Ty Buchanan.”

  He shook my hand.

  “Clyde was in Nam,” Oscar said. “Then was an electrician. Been hard times lately.”

  “I’ll get something soon,” Clyde said. “I just wanted to tell you thanks.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “For putting the squeeze on the owners. I know you don’t have to.”

  Oscar tapped the newspaper. “Know what it says here? Says one in four vets are homeless. Not just the older ones, the ones from Iraq and Afghanistan, too. That ain’t right.”

  “No,” I said.

  Clyde said, “Thanks for stickin’ up for us.”

  125

  THE MAIN ADMINISTRATIVE offices of the Los Angeles Archdiocese were downtown too, and as long as I was here I thought I’d pay a call on the monsignor who sent Father Bob the keep-quiet letter.

  I showed up unannounced, was polite to the receptionist, an older woman with actual blue hair. I always thought that was a myth.

  A few moments later a bespectacled priest in his early fifties came to the foyer. He could have been a college history professor.

  “I’m Monsignor O’Malley,” he said. “How may I help you?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” I said. “I’m from St. Monica’s. I’m a lawyer, and a friend of Father Robert Jackson.”

  He cocked his head, studying me. Then he nodded and showed me to his office. It was wall-to-wall books. I made a comment about them and he made a comment about Jesuit education and then said, “I wasn’t aware that Father Robert had consulted an attorney.”

  “He hasn’t. I’m here on my own.”

  “You’re familiar with the facts, then?”

  “Very. What I’m not familiar with is canon law.”

  He smiled then, like this was his favorite subject. “Would it surprise you to learn that it is the oldest system of law in our culture?”

  “Not really. You Catholics go back a long way.”

  “And just as English common law developed over the centuries, so did our canon law. ‘Canon’ is from a Greek word meaning ‘measuring rod,’ or ‘ruler.’”

  “That explains it,” I said.

  “Explains what?”

  “The nuns’ weapon of choice.”

  The monsignor laughed and said, “That is a cliché, Mr. Buchanan. Although I will tell you this, I had nuns like that in school. And it did me a whale of a lot of good.”

  “And now here you are.”

  “And now here I am. My passion and mission are the same. To use the divine gift of the canon law to serve the church, to keep things on a smooth course. This, by the way, is a charge from Christ himself.”

  “Big charge.”

  “Our system must be a bit mysterious to you, but only because you are not of our faith and have not studied our codes. That is why this particular situation is best left to us.”

  “Maybe you could explain it to me, lawyer to lawyer.”

  “Gladly. According to the Code of Canon Law, Mr. Buchanan, if the good of souls or the necessity or advantage of the church demands that a pastor be transferred from a parish, the bishop is charged with persuading him to consent to it out of love for God. This is precisely what happened in this matter.”

  “Now, from an outsider’s perspective, it sounds like you put pressure on your people not to make waves.”

  He put his fingertips together and tapped them a few times. “I would say we’re all in the same boat. We are all under the direction of Christ.”

  “And you think he’s for this?”

  “Who?”

  “Christ.”

  “I do.”

  “That an innocent priest, accused of the most vile act imaginable, has to sit back and just take it? Help me understand that.” My tone was on the hot side. What was I doing? Father Bob didn’t want me here. I was indeed an outsider. But it just seemed to me that fundamental fairness was the basis of the law, whether it came from church or not.

  “I’m not sure I can help you understand,” O’Malley said. “Except to say that we do not operate according to the dictates or codes of the world.”

  “So what about an appeal?”

  “Father Robert has chosen not to. It is the right choice.”

  “I know the church hasn’t exactly had the best publicity the last few years.”

  Monsignor O’Malley said nothing.

  “And you’ve had to shell out hundreds of millions and sell a bunch of your assets. It’s easy for one priest to get lost in the shuffle.”

  “But he is not lost,” Monsignor O’Malley said. “He is in service to Christ. He is where he should be.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said. “I don’t think you can help me understand.”

  126

  I WASN’T EXACTLY upping my batting average this day. I decided to make one last stop before heading back to St. Monica’s. It was late afternoon, and traffic showed it.

  A little after five I got to the address on Owensmouth in Canoga Park. Brown stucco house. I knocked on the door. Something moved behind the peephole. Then a woman in her mid-twenties opened up. She was on the short side, with a pleasant face.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Heather Dowling?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “My name is Ty Buchanan.” I took out my business card, to please the prosecutor’s office, and gave it to her. “I’m the lawyer representing the man accused of robbing your flower store.”

  She l
ooked at the card, then at me. “Am I allowed to talk to you?”

  “You’re absolutely allowed to. But it’s your choice. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about what you saw.”

  “I already talked to the police and to the deputy district attorney.”

  “That’s right, you did. All I wanted to do was—”

  “Honey, who is it?” A man’s voice from behind her. He came up to the door and I saw he had a young, aw-shucks sort of face, a Huck Finn type.

  She showed him my business card. He looked at it, frowned, then broke into a big smile. “Wait a minute, you’re Ty Buchanan.”

  “Guilty,” I said, then wished I hadn’t.

  “Honey, he’s that guy.”

  “What guy?” Heather said.

  “Remember? That lawyer who was accused of murder? He was in the news.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Now I remember.”

  “Man,” the guy said. “A real celebrity.”

  “Would you mind if the celebrity stepped inside?” I said.

  It was a modest interior, filled with the sorts of things a couple in their twenties would have before they had kids.

  “I hope you’ll give me an autograph,” the man said.

  “I’m awfully shy about that,” I said. “You understand.”

  “Tell me what it was like in jail.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d just like to ask your wife some questions.”

  “Just this one thing. See, I practice law, too.”

  That didn’t seem quite likely. He looked too young. He looked like he should be working at In-N-Out. “What kind of law do you practice?”

  “Estate planning.”

  “So I guess you never get to see the inside of a jail,” I said.

  “Is it really as bad as they say?”

  “Well, every night my cell mate sat on the edge of his cot and played ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’ on his harmonica.”

  “Now you’re just playing with me.” He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Jack Dowling.”

  I shook his hand. “Now about those questions . . .”

  “Should I call Mr. Roberts?” Heather asked.

  “No, honey. It’s all right. I’ll stay here and listen to the questions and if there’s something inappropriate, I will give a shout-out to Mr. Buchanan. We understand each other.”

  “Thank you,” I said. We all sat down, very informal. “I just want to ask you about that day in the flower shop. According to the police report, you saw the Hispanic man behind the counter, is that right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was taking a short break and went out back, and when I came back in the store, he was there.”

  “About how far away were you from him?”

  “I don’t know, maybe twenty feet or so.”

  “And you said, I think, that he pointed the gun at you.”

  “Yes, he told me to stop where I was and just stay there.”

  “That must have been pretty scary.”

  “Of course it was. I was really afraid he was going to shoot somebody. Denise, she was behind the counter right next to him.”

  “Then he walked out of the store and I believe you said that you saw some tattoos on the back of his neck.”

  “Yes. It looked like a name.”

  “Can you tell me any of the letters in the name?”

  “I don’t think so. It happened so fast.”

  “Are you sure they were letters? Could they have been numbers?”

  She thought about it. “I don’t think so.”

  “Think or know?”

  “Honey,” Jack said, “think about it very carefully. Think about what you’d say in court. Mr. Buchanan here is just doing his job, but he is a lawyer.” He snorted a laugh my way.

  I didn’t snort. I try not to when questioning wits.

  “I’m just not sure, okay?” Heather said, an edge to her voice. Like she didn’t want any more advice from either one of us.

  There was a pause. Heather was rubbing her hands together, looking at them.

  “Where’d you go to law school, Ty?” Jack said.

  “UCLA,” I said.

  “Good school. I went to LaVerne.”

  “Ah.”

  Heather was still working her hands.

  “Did you see anybody get shanked?” Jack said.

  “Shanked?”

  “In jail.”

  “Jack,” I said, “to tell you the absolute truth, I’m trying to put that episode behind me, if you know what I mean.”

  He put his hands up. “Sure, yeah, understand completely.”

  “Is that all, Ms. Dowling?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s all,” she said.

  “What about drugs?” Jack said.

  I got up, thanked them, and left. The day had pretty much accomplished nothing.

  127

  AND THAT WENT for everybody else. Sister Mary told me Kylie’d had a bad episode, crying for her mother.

  So I said we were going out. To throw an unbirthday party for Kylie, like in Alice in Wonderland. Father Bob, he would be in the Mad Hatter role. Sister Mary was more like the Cheshire Cat.

  Which left me as what? I shudder to think.

  We went to a little place I knew on Ventura. Neighborhood joint with a great chef. Got a booth near the window.

  Just as we settled I saw an older woman at the next table point at her salad and say, “There are no cranberries here!”

  The man next to her said, “Those are cranberries right there, Mother.”

  “Those aren’t cranberries!”

  “Yes they are, Mother.”

  Kylie whispered, “Why are they fighting?”

  “The lady is making a mountain out of a molehill,” I said. “Do you know what that means?”

  Kylie shook her head.

  “It’s what lawyers do, honey,” Sister Mary said.

  I threw a bread stick at her.

  “Food fight?” Kylie giggled.

  “Fine example,” Sister Mary said.

  Father Bob tried to hide his smile.

  “All right,” I said. “Who is hosting this dinner, anyway? A little respect here would be nice.”

  Kylie asked if she could have roast beef. “Like that knight of the Round Table!”

  Sister Mary asked what that meant.

  Kylie said, “Ty told me a story about a knight of beef.”

  “Sir Loin of Beef,” I said.

  “I see,” said Sister Mary.

  “He sat right next to Sir Osis of Liver.”

  Father Bob put his head in his hands.

  “All my best stuff I get from cartoons,” I said.

  “Best stuff?” Sister Mary said. “I’d hate to hear the rejects.”

  And so it went, with Kylie laughing a lot. Having a great time. She had a steak, ate about one-quarter of it, savoring every bite.

  Then I had them bring out four slices of chocolate cake, with ice cream, a lit candle on Kylie’s. Her unbirthday.

  She didn’t know about making a wish. I told her to close her eyes and make a wish and then blow out the candle, and if she could blow out the candle the wish would come true.

  She closed her eyes, paused, then blew out the candle.

  She should have wished harder.

  128

  AS I TURNED up the road heading to St. Monica’s, headlights flashed behind me. Coming fast. Valley kids like it up here, rodding on these back roads. I pulled to the right slightly to let him pass.

  Pass he did, then pulled right in front of me and hit the brakes.

  I almost rear-ended him.

  A second vehicle, an SUV without lights, stopped on my left. Which meant I couldn’t turn left and go around the first car. On the right was hillside. I was hemmed in.

  “Get down,” I said. “Everybody down.”

  “What is it?” Sister Mary said.

  “Just get down.”

  Silently they did.

  A man in a ski mask app
eared at my window. Out of nowhere. He had a sawed-off shotgun. Pointed at my face.

  “Get out!” he shouted.

  Another masked gunman was at the passenger side, pointing his weapon through the window.

  I opened my door. I was hoping all they wanted was money or the car. But the weaponry and obvious planning here didn’t leave much room for hope.

  Gun to my face, the masked guy said, “Them too. Everybody out.”

  “Look, take what you want,” I said, “but leave them out of this.”

  He turned the sawed-off around in his hands and jammed the butt in my stomach. I doubled over, breath gone.

  “Everybody out or they’re dead,” he said.

  “It’s all right,” Father Bob said from inside the car. “We’re coming.”

  Still folded, I looked at the ground, at the guy’s boots. In the dark it was hard to see, but they looked big. Like they could do a lot of damage if he cared to do it.

  I waited for the other boot to drop.

  It did. After a gun butt to the head, a boot kicked me in the side.

  A sense of falling. Looking up at the sky and stars for a moment. Then lights-out.

  129

  NEXT THING I saw was the face of a monster.

  A dream. Or whatever it is that comes to you when you’re out cold.

  This face had horns and nostrils with smoke coming out. And it closed in on me from the sky, coming down down down to have a look at my sorry self.

  In some distant place I was thinking or feeling that I’d let everyone down. That they would all be dead. Kylie and Sister Mary and Father Bob. And it’d be my fault.

  The demon head got closer and opened its mouth, laughing and mocking, and I was sure I was destined for that maw. And I was scared.

  Then the head exploded, soundlessly, all traces of it disappearing.

  I heard a voice. Familiar, but I wasn’t sure if it was real.

  “Easy,” Father Bob said. “How do you feel?”

  It was still night. I was lying on my back. My head felt like it was in eight sections.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “Anything broken?”

  “Get me up.”

  “You sure?”

  “Get me up.”

  He put one hand under my head and the other under my shoulder. Helped me to a sitting position. I tried to blink some of the gravel out of my brain.