Currents of Sin

by Arleen Alleman

“Really, Mick? That sounds so good. I want you too, and I’m so happy to hear you sounding like yourself.”

  He scoffed, and I thought for a moment he was angry. “I know, Darcy. I’ve let things get to me again, but I’m much better now. Actually, I made an appointment with the shrink that helped me before.”

  “Oh, that’s fine, Mick. I’m so proud of you for having the emotional maturity to get help. I can’t wait to come home.”

  “Thanks, I think.” He laughed, and that was the best sound.

  After the call, I felt better about my personal life than I had in weeks. I hoped we could convince Rachael to bring Anna for a visit, but if she didn’t come, we’d cope with it together.

  I immediately went online to make an airline reservation. I planned to stay one more day. I made another promise to myself: I would go home to DC regardless of what Tom decided to do.

  After I shared my plan with Sid, we decided to spend some of our remaining time together doing something girlie. Sid decided we should check out a new mall not far from the house called Tivoli Village.

  “What better than a shopping adventure with a late lunch?” she asked. “The mall is really neat—European-style architecture and unique boutiques. It’ll be fun, and we can eat at BRIO. It’s a nice Tuscan grille.” She grinned. “They have great martinis.”

  I wondered how she could be so calm and apparently unconcerned when she and I had so recently been threatened. Maybe she was still in denial. Evidently, the desire to maintain a happy, carefree lifestyle was a powerful motivator. Past a certain point, however, optimism can be reckless.

  “Sure, Sid, that sounds like fun. But aren’t you a little worried about whatever is going on with Paul and the phone calls?”

  “Yes, but I have to live my life, and I’m not concerned about going to a public mall.”

  36

  Day 8

  At ten in the morning, we exited through the garage entrance, and I saw Sid’s car for the first time. During my entire visit, it was hidden under a fleece car cover, which she quickly removed.

  “Wow, that’s an amazing ride.” I stared at the new Porsche Boxster. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s called rhodium silver metallic. I didn’t really want anything this flashy, but Brooks insisted on buying it for me. I don’t drive it all that often.” She walked around to the driver’s side. “But I have to admit it’s kind of fun.”

  I bent low and slid my five-eleven frame into the little sports car. I was surprised at the amount of leg room and impressed with the obviously high-end interior.

  “Is that crocodile?”

  “That’s what it’s called. I guess it might be real. This interior is all custom.”

  The upholstery and tooled leather finish were elegant. Wood trim circled the dash and center console, and the wood-topped gearshift rose out of a gold cradle. I gave her a raised eyebrow.

  With one of her delightful giggles, she pushed a button to start the car and another to lower the convertible top.

  “Yes, it’s gold plate. Can you believe it?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  I settled into the comfy body-hugging seat and tried not to think about the alarmingly short distance between my butt and the concrete floor.

  Sid maneuvered the car well and seemed fairly proficient with the five-speed transmission. Still, I knew this wasn’t like any car she’d owned before and that it takes practice to handle a small high-performance machine like this. I love my friend, so I leaned back, determined to relax and enjoy the ride. The hot breeze whipping through my hair did feel wonderful.

  She explained that we would take Desert Inn Road to South Fort Apache, then drive just a few miles north. “It’s really a short trip,” she assured me.

  After we left the neighborhood, she shifted into fourth gear, and we rocketed toward the intersection at Desert Inn. Traffic was light, and she was driving about five miles over the limit.

  The sun was high and bright, but long shadows stretched across the road from tall elms and palms lining both sides. Slowing enough to make the turn onto Fort Apache, Sid glanced over at me and grinned.

  “Fun, ha?”

  “Lot’s, but I should have worn a hat or more sunscreen. My face is already burning.”

  Before we reached the intersection at Sahara Avenue, the road divided into four lanes, and the speed limit increased to forty-five. Sid was already driving about ten miles over that in the passing lane. The light was green as we approached the intersection. I debated mentioning her speed, assuming she didn’t realize how fast we were going. It was easy to do that in a small car.

  Before I could speak, up ahead on the right, I noticed a white sedan stopped in the far right lane of Westbound Sahara. What really attracted my attention was a boy standing on a skateboard next to the driver’s door. He wore jeans and a multicolored tie-dyed T-shirt with an orange ball cap. I guess the rainbow colors caught my eye. The odd thing was that his hand was resting on the car’s front fender next to the hood.

  “Sid, look there.” I pointed without thinking. “You don’t think he’s hitching a ride, do you? How dangerous would that be?”

  She glanced along my outstretched arm and turned the wheel slightly in that direction. For a split second, when she realized she was veering into the next lane, I thought she might overcorrect, which could have been disastrous. She was all right, though. No problem—except for the life-changing disaster that occurred a few seconds later.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two things simultaneously: the glint of a shiny object resting on the edge of the white car’s open window and the boy suddenly flying into the intersection on a trajectory, which would bring him in contact with us in the middle of the street. I knew we were going to hit the kid, but a second later, I knew that we were going to crash instead.

  Sid yelped when she saw him and pulled sharply to the left. She was screaming when she missed him by inches and swerved into oncoming traffic. A car coming south on Apache clipped our left front fender, spinning us to the right. My fleeting thought was that damage from even that relatively minor collision would cost a fortune to repair.

  In a matter of seconds, we’d crossed all the lanes of Sahara Avenue and hit the curb. I still don’t know if a more experienced driver could have done anything different. The momentum of the lightweight sports car, combined with the unfortunate angle of the right front wheel as it bounced onto the sidewalk, flipped the car completely over.

  Maybe if we hadn’t been speeding, that would have been the end of it. Instead, the car continued to roll. I could do nothing but hold on, grateful for the tightened seat belt and side air bag cushioning me. Our screams were loud, but other sounds were worse. I’ll never forget the earsplitting bending and scraping of metal against pavement and crunching glass.

  With no time to process the terror, I concentrated on keeping my arms in close to my body. Dipping my head below the windshield, I prayed the roll bar technology would save us from being crushed if we landed upside down.

  The Boxster finally came to rest on the driver’s side with the undercarriage pressed up against the concrete wall of a Chipotle Mexican Grill on the corner. Somehow we avoided hitting any other cars or pedestrians along the way.

  What was left of the car pressed in on us like a too-tight suit of armor. I came to my senses, choking and coughing. Thick reddish dust enveloped us from the restaurant’s new landscaping—a strip of dirt with baby plants and shrubs now totally destroyed.

  Hanging sideways in the shoulder restraint, I was barely able to reach my arm up to my stinging face. A rhythmic searing pain in my head and a throbbing one in my neck assured me they were still connected to my body. I knew I was bruised and scratched, but there didn’t appear to be significant bleeding. As far as I could tell, my bones were intact.

  I was still coughing dirt from my lungs when the air
cleared so that I could open my eyes all the way. I looked down. “Oh my god, Sid. Are you okay?”

  That was stupid. She certainly was not okay. In fact, my first thought was that my friend was dead. She was lying on the inside of the door—now the floor. Blood streamed down the side of her face and pooled on her chest. She was twisted—sort of mangled—with the steering wheel and dash, and the odd angle of her body was sickening.

  Suspended awkwardly above her and unable to move, I suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. I tried hard not to vomit, but it was no use. Turning my head as far as possible to the right, I threw up on my shoulder.

  Wiping my mouth with the back of my wrist, I looked down at her again. “Sid, Sid, can you hear me?”

  I must have lost consciousness for a few minutes and woke up trying to locate my purse. I needed my phone now. Then I realized a small crowd of people were peering in at us. An older man with thinning hair and sympathetic eyes was talking to me.

  “Please stay still, miss. The EMTs are coming.”

  Before I could locate my phone, I heard the first sirens.

  “They’re coming, Sid. Hang on. Oh my god.”

  37

  I remember a lot about what happened over the next couple of hours, but not every detail due to a mild concussion and because I probably blocked some of it out.

  The EMTs took me out of the car through the open top and checked my vitals. I remember a young woman who looked like a teenager telling me I would be all right as she ran her hands over my arms and legs. Then I was sitting on the back end of an ambulance in a helpless panic, watching them extricate Sid from her beautiful car—now an unrecognizable jumble of metal.

  The Boxster hadn’t held together very well, and parts were strewn all along the four-hundred-foot path of our spectacular crash. It was obvious that despite the side air bag deployment, Sid had sustained serious injuries. To improve their access to her, the firemen used pneumatic tools to tear open what was left of the passenger door and to lift the crumpled front end off her legs.

  I remember the medics checking her vital signs, applying a neck brace, and assessing her injuries as best they could. At one point, she briefly regained consciousness and screamed in agony. I gritted my teeth and heard a pitiful moan that I soon realized was coming from my own throat.

  After fifteen minutes, which seemed like hours to me, they felt it was safe to lift her out of the twisted pile of steel, plastic, and alligator leather and onto a backboard. I craned my neck to get a look at her as they passed by on the way to a second ambulance.

  Blood covered her legs from the knees down as well as the side of her face, left shoulder, and chest. She was ghostly pale. If not for one of the medics frantically calling for an IV to be inserted, I would have concluded that my best friend was gone.

  The next thing I clearly recall was trying to explain to Brooks what had happened. He was wearing a beautifully tailored suit, having come from work, but his normally well-groomed hair was wild. It was nothing compared to his eyes, which darted around the room before settling on me with a haunted glaze.

  He stood beside my bed in the emergency department, listening to me for about two minutes. Then he lost it and began yelling at the top of his voice. He described Sid’s condition as grave—touch and go—and told me it was all my fault because I’d put myself in danger again.

  “Like you always do! Trouble follows you everywhere,” he shouted. “You two shouldn’t have been out driving around. This time, you might have caused my wife’s death—your best friend. Are you satisfied?”

  He gasped and sobbed between hostile outbursts. A security guard obviously accustomed to handling emotionally distraught family members rushed over and quickly calmed him down. For another minute, Brooks remained in place, his shoulders quivering and tears streaming down his cheeks. Then he sniffed and walked away, presumably to check on Sid.

  I turned toward the wall and finally let go of the fear and emotional pain. Crying softly, I thought about Brooks’s distress. It was understandable, but he wasn’t making sense. This couldn’t be my fault … could it? The shopping excursion in Sid’s car was her idea. She was driving.

  The painkillers were working on my bruises and muscle aches. I was essentially unhurt. Meanwhile, according to Brooks, Sid was barely hanging on with a spinal cord injury and two broken legs. He said the doctors decided to induce a coma to ensure she would not move until they got her into surgery to set bones and get better imaging of her back.

  “They haven’t yet ruled out other internal injuries,” he told me before he lost his temper.

  The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back, staring at the little acoustic holes in the ceiling panels, trying to explain the accident and Sid’s condition to Mick. I didn’t remember placing the call.

  When I took a breath, there was silence while he processed the information before he spoke. In a surprisingly calm voice, he was saying, “I love you, honey, and I’m so sorry about this. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I couldn’t believe how calm he sounded. “Honestly, I’m just bruised. Sid is the one who’s in bad shape.” I couldn’t prevent a sob from escaping.

  “Hang on, honey. I’ll be there with you as soon as humanly possible.”

  Relief flooded over me, knowing he was coming to Vegas. As I disconnected, a police officer pushed aside the curtain enclosure and asked if I was up to talking. He was young and tall with short blond hair and a good build. He looked down at me with a sympathetic smile. Gently, he asked if we’d been drinking and how fast we were going.

  There was no point in denying that we were speeding. After verifying that no one else had been injured, as rationally as possible, I explained about how the car stopped at the intersection and skateboard boy. He was the cause of the accident, but needless to say, neither he nor the driver remained at the scene.

  My thoughts were coalescing. “I’m here with a friend from Florida who’s in law enforcement. His name is Tom Smythe, and he’s staying at the El Cortez. He needs to know about this. Oh, and Special Agent in Charge Grant Murray at the FBI too because this might be related to a case he’s familiar with.”

  I didn’t know I was making that connection until I’d spoken and wasn’t sure it made any sense. Once I collected my thoughts and acknowledged the fear, I tried to explain the threats we’d received and the previous attempts on Sid’s life. As an afterthought, I asked if he would notify Detective Craig Hollister as well.

  “He knows I’m here looking at the problem with Asian gangs and street teens. I know I’m talking about seemingly unrelated issues, but please trust me.”

  My brain was trying to put together disjointed pieces of information to explain what happened. I believe real coincidences occur with regularity, like being in the same time and place as a friend you haven’t seen in years. In this case, my intuition screamed that our accident was not related to any type of coincidence. There were simply too many factors in play for them to be unrelated.

  I have to give the guy credit. He listened to me wide-eyed, and although he might have thought my brains were scrambled, he didn’t totally discount my law enforcement rant. He agreed to get word to Hollister and Tom. I guessed the FBI was a little too much for him. Then he made me go over the details of the accident again while he took more notes.

  I laid back and closed my eyes, trying to picture the scene. “The car was white, and I’ve no idea about the make. The whole thing was over in seconds. Just as the kid started to shoot across in front of us on his board, I saw that the driver’s window was open, and there was something metallic resting on it. Now I think it was a gun.”

  I opened my eyes to gauge his reaction. He raised an eyebrow but continued to write.

  “Before that, the kid was standing at a dead stop beside the car as if he was talking to the driver and waiting for something. The next second, he was flying into the intersection.
I have a feeling it was purposeful, but I don’t think he would have risked his life like that unless he was forced to do it.”

  I closed my eyes again, and an image of a black SUV suddenly appeared. “Oh, I think someone followed us out of Sid’s neighborhood, and maybe they let the guy at the intersection know we were on the way.”

  In response to his puzzled expression, I added, “It’s complicated, but I think I know what happened.”

  After providing all the details I could remember about Sid’s harassing calls, my SUV stalker, and Paul Denezza’s vendetta against Sid, I closed my eyes. My head was pounding.

  “I think what happened to us is related to all that,” I added weakly with a hand across my eyes.

  I figured there was no use trying to get this officer to contact Murray. Tom was already making an appointment with him, and now we could wait for Mick to go with us. I squinted up at the officer through my fingers. The light had become unbearable.

  “Please tell Detective Hollister about this, especially about the boy.”

  Even as I spoke those words, I realized this couldn’t have anything to do with the street kids or the Asian gang. It was all about Paul and his lackeys. Was this really another attempt on Sid’s life and possibly on mine? But wait, didn’t the possible coercion of a teenager to cause our wreck suggest involvement of the gang and street kids?

  I suddenly thought about Ping. What about him? Was it a coincidence that I angered—perhaps threatened—him last night?

  My head felt as if it would explode with the slightest movement. I couldn’t think logically anymore. Pain and an overwhelming sadness were dulling my perceptions. I was losing peripheral vision. Miraculously, a nurse appeared with Tylenol and informed me the doctors would soon release me. Good, I guess, but I couldn’t imagine going back to the house to face Brooks’s anger and grief. Above all, I wanted to see Sid.

  38

  Day 9

  At three in the morning, I finally gave up on sleep. In my new accommodations at the El Cortez, I sat up in bed and reached for my computer. Placing it on my lap, without thinking about it too much, I Skyped Rachael in Sydney. It was a long shot because of the nineteen-hour time change and because she didn’t know I was calling. Until I saw her beautiful face before me, I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.