by Chris Mooney
The Clara Anna Woods Mobile Home Park consisted of actual homes, not trailers, each unit a tiny yellow house with white trim and tandem parking for up to three cars. The little village—and that was what she considered it—was flat and open and had fresh, clean air and she had a wonderful view of the mountains from her back porch. Most important, for the first time in her life, she had privacy. It surprised her how badly she wanted it.
It was coming up on nine when the cruiser pulled up against the curb. Ellie wished she could have driven home herself, but regulations dictated that an officer involved in a shooting wasn’t allowed to get behind the wheel. Her car, she’d been told, would probably be delivered to her tomorrow, Sunday at the latest.
It didn’t really matter. She was on a mandatory five-day paid leave.
Cody’s black Ford F-150 truck wasn’t there—which surprised her. Maybe it was just as well. This was the first moment she had when she didn’t have to talk, to answer questions. Now she had the opportunity to just be, and see what happened.
The last of the sunlight was still visible over the mountains when the patrol car pulled away. A gold and purplish color washed across the lemon tree planted in her front yard and the crushed white stones she had instead of a lawn. Ellie, dressed in the gray hoodie, sweats, and flip-flops brought from her locker to the hospital, forced herself to take in the beauty around her—the sunset and mountains. All it did, though, was make her feel small and insignificant.
She knew why. The reason she was standing here right now and breathing this air and enjoying this view and listening to Claire Leddy’s yellow Lab, Greta, barking three doors down was simply because today she had gotten lucky. That was it, no other reason. Sparing her life wasn’t a part of some divine grand plan. Things in life didn’t happen for a reason or because you were good or bad or indifferent or all of the above. It all came down to luck, and didn’t you know that was out of your control, and trying to sit with that knowledge and accept it, well, that was a hard thing to do when you believed you did, in fact, control every single aspect of your life.
She wished Cody were here. Cody, who was rock-solid, his viewpoints on life and marriage and family as unshakable as his faith in God and the greater good. Cody, who loved her unconditionally despite her best efforts to push him away at times because, deep down—let’s face it—didn’t she at times feel unworthy of his type of love? And wasn’t that because she had deliberately chosen not to share a certain particular burden with him?
Thinking about that burden made a part of her feel glad he wasn’t here. Relieved. That part of her said, Call and tell him not to come. The LAPD had confiscated her phone. She couldn’t call him unless she borrowed a phone from someone.
She wanted to call him and yet didn’t want to call him. Why couldn’t she make a decision? Why am I so confused?
You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, Vickers had said to her. In these situations, victims—
“I’m not a victim,” Ellie whispered into the fading sunlight. Her hands balled into fists and she shook uncontrollably. “I am not a victim.”
Ellie marched into her house and headed upstairs. She stood in the shower until the hot water ran out. She felt scrubbed clean but cold all over, even after she got dressed.
Two glasses of bourbon fixed the problem.
Her little house, with its vaulted ceilings and clever use of space, felt like a mansion to her. After she fixed herself a fresh drink at the breakfast bar, she paced back and forth across the carpeted family room, her ice tinkling against the glass.
Her gaze kept drifting to the stairs.
Tonight wasn’t a good time to take a trip down memory lane. Cody, she was sure, would arrive at any minute to check on her—and besides, memory lane always led to the same dead end.
And yet it didn’t surprise her in the slightest when she stepped up to the refrigerator and pulled open the bottom drawer of the freezer and fished out the key she kept tucked underneath a carton of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. She didn’t fight the urge or question it when she carried her drink up to the second floor and used the key on the doorknob lock for the spare bedroom. It certainly didn’t surprise her when she flicked the light switch and felt a wave of relief wash through her. She had come home, back to the person she kept hidden from the rest of the world.
Cody had not stepped foot inside this room, thought she used it as a storage area for her mother’s old things and kept it locked because she said she was embarrassed by all the clutter. He would have been surprised if not outwardly shocked to discover that this boxy room, with its white walls and light beige carpeting, was just as neat and organized as the rest of her house. The shades were drawn, always, to block out wandering eyes, because if someone looked inside and saw what was in there, they might be inclined to call the police. The room looked like the lair of some diabolical serial killer.
The soft white light came from a cheap plastic lamp she had owned since childhood. The desk, made of heavy walnut, had been purchased at a yard sale by her mother. Ellie could remember that lazy Saturday afternoon in May when Kay Batista had returned home and, beaming with pride, said, I’ve got such a surprise for you. Ellie, also a proud veteran of yard sales and flea markets and thrift stores, had rescued two items left out as trash on a sidewalk in Van Nuys: a dented filing cabinet and a big wood-framed corkboard.
She opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and took out the files for Jolie Simone and Alex Hernandez. She placed a red X on each tab and then moved the files to the bottom drawer—the drawer of the dead, she called it. Touching the paper, moving the files—it was tactile. Made the victims seem real to her and not just bits of information stored in the cloud or a database.
Now she turned her attention to the corkboard. Her main project.
A strip of masking tape ran down its center.
The left half of the corkboard contained an eight-by-ten photograph she had taken herself—not with her smartphone but with a professional Canon digital camera with a telescopic lens, the same rig the paparazzi used to capture female celebrities frolicking half-naked on the beach. She had taken the picture at night two months ago, on a street around the corner from a popular club in Los Angeles. In the photo, a tall, muscular guy dressed in jeans and a tight-fitting blue T-shirt leaned against the driver’s-side window of a Buick SUV, handing over the same kind of sticker device she’d seen earlier today at the Vargas house.
The man handing over the sticker was Anton Kuzmich, a Russian immigrant in his early thirties who owned a private security business that catered mostly to LA’s high-end nightclubs. He was also, she had discovered on her own time, heavily involved in the blood world.
The man seated behind the wheel was another matter. Despite her best efforts, no amount of digital enhancement or computer trickery could coax the driver’s face from the shadows, and she’d been unable to capture the license plate number.
What she did capture was the man’s left hand on the steering wheel. It was pale, the thick knuckles and forearm as hairy as an ape’s, and he wore a ring on his middle finger. The ring’s design had two lions circling each other, preparing to fight. That was the only detail she knew of him.
She assumed he was an important player in the blood world, given the fact that Anton Kuzmich had handed off the sticker to him, probably telling the man behind the wheel he had identified a carrier. That was how it was done these days, by a stickman, a task normally performed by a kid like the one she’d seen at the Vargas house—a homeless teenager who could run fast, get in and out in a hurry.
Ellie drank some more of her whiskey. After she put down the glass, she took in a deep, slow breath and, squaring her shoulders, turned her attention to the picture on the right half of the corkboard.
This one was a five-by-seven of a black-haired boy a few months shy of celebrating his sixth birthday. He wore dark blue footie pajamas an
d sat Indian-style on a hardwood floor desperately in need of refinishing. His expression was what always drew her to the picture—the way he stared in wide-eyed rapture at the Christmas presents arranged under a small artificial tree bursting with lights and handmade decorations.
The boy’s name was Jonathan Cullen. His mother called him Jonathan, always, but everyone else called him J.C., including Ellie. She had no idea if J.C. was still alive, what he might look like now. As she stared at his photograph, she hoped, as she had thousands and thousands of times over the years, that wherever J.C. was right now, he knew she still loved him and missed him and was still searching for him.
That his twin sister hadn’t given up, would never give up.
CHAPTER 9
I’VE BEEN SHOT.
That was Sebastian’s only thought as he sank through the cool blue water belonging, ironically, to the very same pool where he had taught Paul to swim. He had played with him in this pool, had thrown Paul and his friends into the air in this pool when they were little, and that boy had grown into an adult monster that had given a hand signal to the person aiming the rifle from the neighbor’s bedroom window.
But he had been shot in the chest, not the head, and here came the question riding on the throbbing waves of pain: had the round penetrated the thin, light bulletproof vest he wore every day? It sure as hell felt like it had.
How much blood am I losing?
How much time do I have before I get light-headed and pass out and bleed to death?
Don’t let that prick win.
Sebastian could no longer hold his breath. His body ignored his brain’s order not to breathe and he found himself trying to inhale the water—not the brightest idea, since he wasn’t a goddamn fish. He pushed himself off the bottom of the pool and kicked and thrashed his way to the surface. The moment he felt the air hit his face, he tried to breathe, and his lungs and body revolted. He vomited up pool water and the digested remnants of the Coke and chicken salad sandwich he’d had for lunch. His loafers couldn’t find purchase on the slick bottom of the pool and he flailed about wildly in the water, his chest on fire and the pool steps directly in front of him, ten or so feet away.
His brain was locked in survival mode, and it screamed, Sniper could still be in the window, and don’t forget about Paul—where’s Paul?
A couple of quick glances revealed that Paul wasn’t in the backyard or near the driveway or anywhere else. Where the hell was he? As for the sniper, Sebastian didn’t bother to look as he swam madly toward the steps—although what he was doing wasn’t really swimming but more like stumbling through water and thrashing his limbs as he tried to suck in air between gagging, coughing, and heaving. Keep moving, he told himself. It’s hard to shoot a moving target, so keep moving if you want to live.
Moving, though, was the problem. Moving through water was like moving in slow motion, which made him an easy target. Still, he kept at it, limbs flailing. He gagged on water and, he was certain, blood. He didn’t stop to check, just kept moving, the adrenaline, he knew, keeping him alive for the moment.
Sebastian’s hands found purchase on the pool steps. He crawled up them, but when he went to stand his legs gave out and he collapsed sideways against the ground. The sliding glass door off the kitchen was less than twenty feet away. Get to that now.
By some miracle combination of adrenaline and sheer will he managed to get back on his feet and then staggered to the sliding glass door, which was unlocked because Paul had come out through it earlier, with the crystal highball glasses.
Sebastian’s destination was his office. He slipped, slid, and skidded his way across the living room’s hardwood floor, splashing and dripping water along the way, then moved through the immense kitchen, with its tiled floor and gleaming white surfaces, using the furniture and walls for support. He kept glancing over his shoulder, half expecting to see Paul behind him, coming to finish the job.
Down the foyer, and finally there was the door to his office. He stumbled inside and slammed the door shut. When he threw the dead bolt, his legs fluttered in relief or fear or maybe both; whatever the reason, he collapsed against the cold tile floor, wet and shivering—and safe. Paul couldn’t get in here. The door had a steel core and two strike plates—no way Paul could kick it down. The pair of windows overlooking the front yard were made of bulletproof glass—no way the sick prick could shoot his way in, either.
Sebastian was no longer gagging but it still hurt like a mad bastard every single time he drew a breath. He managed to get his tie and suit jacket off, but unbuttoning his shirt was another matter; his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, his fingers unable to hold on to the buttons. Screw it. He ripped his shirt open, buttons flying everywhere, and with a quick and silent prayer looked down at his chest.
At Frank’s urging, Sebastian had purchased a bulletproof vest—a sad statement on the world they now lived in. Frank had picked out one that, according to the website, was designed with a gel that worked in conjunction with carbon nanofibers, which resulted in a vest that guaranteed police-level protection from any round on the market, without the weight and bulk.
It seemed the claim wasn’t marketing bullshit. Sebastian was pleased to report that he didn’t see any blood, just a mark on the fabric where the round had struck him.
Maybe I’ll go online and leave a review, Sebastian thought, and was overcome with a fit of giggling. His body put a stop to that when his ribs howled in protest. Must have cracked one—probably a whole bunch of them. He undid the Velcro straps and pulled away the thin fabric to examine his skin. He had one hell of a welt, and it was located on the right part of his chest—directly opposite from his heart. The shooter had been aiming for it when Sebastian turned at the last second.
Only a trained marksman could have managed such a shot from such a distance. Had Paul hired one of his Marine buddies? How many people did Paul have working for him?
Sebastian collapsed against the floor. He turned onto his side and waited for the pain to quiet down, lose its bite.
Trixie had decorated his office—picked out all the furniture, the big walnut desk and matching bookcases and leather sofa and club chair and, leaning against the corner wall, the large standing mirror. Sebastian saw himself in the office now, soaking wet and curled up on the floor. It shamed him, seeing himself this way, looking like the scared little boy who had once curled into a ball and wanted to scream and cry at being sentenced to life in prison for a crime—
You’re alive, an inner voice said. It was the voice of his Higher Power—his higher self. Focus on that.
Yes. That was the main thing, the takeaway: he was alive and, for the moment, safe from Paul. Paul, who had outsmarted him. Paul, who wanted to control his blood business, where the kids were safe and well treated, turn it all into a horror show where he would rape and impregnate his female carriers in order to harvest their blood. Sebastian had to prevent that.
But first, the police. Were they already on their way here? The rifle shot hadn’t been that loud, which suggested the use of a silencer. That made sense; Paul wouldn’t have wanted to draw any unnecessary attention to the gunman—or himself. The two of them had needed to leave as quickly and quietly as possible. Still, the report could have been loud enough for someone to pick up the phone and call the police about a possible gunshot. And since Sebastian lived in Whitey Town, the police would be lightning quick.
He saw his suit jacket lying in a wet ball on the floor and patted down the fabric until he found his phone. He had never met any electronic device that enjoyed swimming, but he was hoping this case would prove an exception.
It didn’t. His smartphone was dead.
The safe. He had a couple of brand-new burners stored inside the wall safe, along with passports, IDs, and cash. He got to his feet too quickly and doubled over in pain so debilitating, his legs came dangerously close to buckling. Again he used the wall and fu
rniture for support as he shuffled his way to the other side of the room and opened the closet door. He turned on the light, pushed aside his winter jackets, and faced the safe, an old-fashioned model with a rotary dial. Digital safes were notoriously easy to hack.
The burners were in there, sitting on top of neatly wrapped bundles of cash—fifty grand in total. For a brief moment he had the urge to throw everything in a duffel bag and then get the hell out of Dodge, live somewhere on a Caribbean island until he died of cirrhosis of the liver or skin cancer, whichever came first. The fantasy—and that was all it was and would ever be—quickly scattered like a puff of smoke.
Three rings, and then Frank’s calm and even voice spoke on the other end of the line: “Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Why you calling me from this—” Frank cut himself off. Then, concerned, his voice lower: “Why are you out of breath? There a problem?”
“Yeah,” Sebastian said, his voice pinched tight, “you might say that.”
CHAPTER 10
THE HANDFUL OF childhood memories Ellie had of her brother were either snapshots or brief videos attached to bursts of intense emotion: young Ellie scared and wearing incredibly bright, almost neon orange inflatable floaties around her tiny arms and fiercely gripping J.C.’s hand as they stepped together into a pool for the first time. J.C. insisting on wearing them when he took a bath, afraid he was going to drown—and also insisting on wearing a swimming mask, because he was terrified of getting water on his face. Ellie wailing when she discovered J.C. had given the doll she named Miss Bee-bee a haircut that had left her looking like something from a science experiment gone horribly wrong. Oh, here was a really funny memory, one of her favorites, that always made her smile: J.C., three, maybe four years old, sitting buck naked on the toilet and gripping the seat for dear life so he wouldn’t fall in, his face a dark red from straining to crap, tears running down his cheeks as he scream-sobbed, “Poopy, get out of my body!”