The Innocents

by Richard Barre

  THE INNOCENTS

  A Wil Hardesty Novel

  Richard Barre

  Copyright © 1995 by Richard Barre

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  First eBook Edition: September 2011

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by JT Lindroos

  Cover photo by cloudchaser32000

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  The Innocents

  Preview from Clutching at Straws by J.L. Abramo

  Preview from Wiley’s Lament by Lono Waiwaiole

  Preview from The Art of Redemption by Bob Truluck

  For Ruth Groves Barre

  Life and Inspiration

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Much love to Susan, who always knew.

  Many thanks to Cheryl Lyons and Fidel Gonzales of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, Robert Dambacher and Judy Suchey for all the coroner-type questions they answered, and to Jim Rochester for his guidance. Thanks also to Shelly Lowenkopf, Leonard Tourney, and Alan Rinsler for their invaluable input; Fred Klein for his advice and counsel; Philip Spitzer, Michael Seidman, and George Gibson for their faith; Susan, Mary, Ruth, and June for their fine-tooth combing; Keith and Bill for their artistic efforts; and to the many other friends and relatives who gave their support and good cheer.

  Back to TOC

  PROLOGUE

  Mexico, 1967

  The man’s hand was hurting his—he wanted to pull away, to run. He said he was sorry about the medal. Why couldn’t they understand?

  Papa must know that Gilberto had put him up to it. Gilberto was jealous. Gilberto fooled him, and now look what happened. First the beating from Papa and now the man taking him away. Sad faces, his brother not looking at him, Mama crying.

  Yesterday had been so happy. He wanted to go back to the bright time with the shouts and the blindfold and the clay rooster he’d whacked with the long stick. Even getting up at dawn had been exciting—before the church bells, before anyone. All winter they’d coughed in the chill wind off the mountains. But it was warmer now, and night rain had washed the sky leaving pinks and golds.

  Finally he couldn’t stand it, so he woke them, all but Mama, who stayed behind. How could they have been so slow? Hanging back to tease him, laughing as he tried to hurry them along. In church, with Papa watching, he’d been good the whole time. Even the old priest went to sleep, but not him. Next year he would join his brothers at the rail, receive the wafer, feel the shiny disk touch his throat before it moved on. Then he would close his eyes and taste the Bodyblood. Made him want to make a face, but he’d be brave.

  Mass was endless, his toes jumping beans—and then it was over. Skipping home in the sunshine, ahead of Papa and the rest. The door opening suddenly. Mama there and the flowers and the piñata and the singing: Happy Birthday to him! As they sucked on little sugar cones, Papa gave it to him, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, silver with his name on it and everything. It was only later, when he and Gilberto were alone examining the medal, that Gilberto dared him. “Pretend it’s First Communion. Go on, don’t be a baby.” He was no baby. He showed Gilberto.

  Papa’s willow switch had stung like fire through his thin pants. Never had he seen his father so angry. At least he knew Gilberto hurt just as much.

  But that was yesterday. Now the man’s hand was tightening on his, pulling him toward the door. Papa met his eyes and looked down, then Gilberto. Was the man going to take Gilberto away because of the medal, too? Mama was crying again, Papa holding her now.

  He didn’t like the man, didn’t want to go. Would God know where to find him? Couldn’t they give him another chance?

  He would never do it again.

  ONE

  California, l990

  Dawn was bringing shape to the greasewood by the time they unearthed the skeleton and sifted for clues. Montoya, part of the initial wave of law, watched as first light touched Saddleback Butte and the Tehachapis. It had been a long night, wind off the Angeles Crest dogging them for most of it, rising again with the sun.

  Soon they’d kill the generator-powered kliegs.

  Montoya slugged down the last of the coffee, raised the fur collar of his jacket as a gust stung him. Still snow up there, obviously; months before the warm desert evenings, the kids laughing in the backyard pool.

  He wondered if the kid they’d found liked to swim. All kids liked to swim, certainly his did. Jesus, what next, he thought, rubbing his eyes. In fourteen years he’d seen children die in smash-ups, a baby electrocuted, a family of five wiped out in a fire. This one was different, though, put in the ground with intent; chilling beyond the sadness of it. Montoya recalled his first glimpse of the skull, multicolored quartz chips embedded in the small eye sockets.

  He scratched his scalp under the L.A. County Sheriff’s cap. From the looks, this one was about his daughter’s age. Hard not to think it.

  The coroner and crime scene people were nearly finished, the gravesite photographed, evidence bagged. Montoya, who’d supervised until the Homicide team from downtown arrived, tossed the thermos in the 4WD then crunched over coarse gravel defining the flash flood channel.

  “Can’t tell much yet from the bones.” Weiss the name tag read; Montoya remembered her from a Palmdale rape-murder she and her partner drew a couple of years ago. Her breath showed in the morning cold.

  “We maybe got lucky, though.” She held up a clear plastic bag, something small and round inside.

  Montoya took the bag, felt the Saint Christopher medal. It was a cheap plated one, with some of the silver around the staff and the Christchild stripped away. He turned the bag over. The engraving was worn but deep enough to read: Vaya con Dios, Benito. Papa, 1967.

  Montoya puzzled a moment; something clicked. “What about a chain? One turn up?”

  She exhaled. “Not so far. Kind of expect one, wouldn’t you, Sergeant? Would have lasted as long as the medal.”

  “Detective Weiss,” a voice called. “Over here.”

  One of the Lancaster deputies was hunched over something several feet from the area they’d combed. “More bones,” he said. “Spotted ’em as it got lighter. Look there.”

  They looked. Barely visible outside the circle of artificial light, beside the exposed roots of a mesquite bush, white finger bones poked up from gray gravel. Like the others they were small, perfect. A child’s hand.

  There was a moan of wind, a crackle from one of the radios.

  Weiss spoke first. “Merry Christmas,” she said.

  “Son of a bitch,” Montoya added.

  “Slow
it down, Patty, how many?”

  The news director was trying to open his eyes and find his glasses at the same time. From the floor where he’d knocked the alarm, the hour glowed early, too early for somebody who worked as late as he did.

  “What’s the source?” he mumbled. She was calling mobile, he could hear truck sounds and a car radio in the background. McGann wasn’t the best field jockey on his news team, but she was young and ambitious and covered a lot of ground. Things he liked.

  “Scanner, Chief, heard it coming home from a date. At first it was a single, kid’s remains out near Saddleback Butte—some man and his son shooting at cans found ’em. I got curious, made coffee, and sat with it. After a while they came on again and upped it to three. Figured I’d get rolling.”

  The news director grunted, sat up, fumbled on bifocals; he’d crossed the line now, more awake than asleep. “Okay. How quick can you get there?”

  “I’m on the Golden State near Burbank,” she said. “Traffic’s a bitch. An hour if I step on it.”

  “Step on it, then. Any idea about the three?”

  “Not yet.”

  The news director heard a horn and a muffled curse, half-smiled, reached for his cigarettes. He’d spent twelve years in the field, knew the pressure the kid was under. Delays were slow death.

  “Too early to tell, I guess,” she said. “Scanner’s been pretty sketchy. I just hope I got the jump.”

  “Stay with it, you’ll be fine. You got a shooter yet?”

  “Lombardi’s a mile or so back.” Gears shifted. “Here we go,” she said. “Might scoop this one yet, Chief.”

  “Just get there in one piece, okay?”

  “Rodge.”

  He was about to hang up and put the department on alert when he heard Patty McGann swear again, only this time it was full of wonder. A little prickle went up the news director’s spine. He’d heard a CBS correspondent swear much the same way passing a shot-up rifle company near Hue, 1968. It had been him.

  McGann came back, but her voice sounded far away.

  “Scanner just updated. They’ve got five so far.” There was a pause. “My God, they’re still counting.”

  TWO

  Pumping for speed, Hardesty dropped down the waveface, hit bottom then angled up for a move off the lip. After reentry and a cutback, he’d close it out with five on the nose—maybe ten—show ’em how it’s done. Nirvana coming up.

  Then the wind. All day it had stoked the breakers, turning wavetops into needle spray that reached windshields driving past the Rincon. All day it had been his friend.

  He was coming off the top when it hit, a maverick burst of gusting energy. Unbalanced and overcompensating, he staggered then flipped headfirst into the green wall, the weight of it rolling over him like a highballing freight. He came up breathless, tasting salt. The longboard, like a dog on a leash, tugged on the cord strapped to his ankle.

  Gringo flashed by him on the next swell. “Hey, Kahuna. Gotta show me that one.”

  Hardesty grinned. He and his board were relics to these kids and their racy tri-fin thrusters. They knew him, though, got a bang out of his wipeouts. What the hell, so did he.

  Even with the wind the day was perfect: lapis sky, clouds long gone, Channel Islands clear enough to see the canyons etched like claw marks in the hills. And two miles south, the roof of his La Conchita house. Lisa’d have the Viennese brewing by now, burnt bitter stuff—words that made him wonder if it wasn’t the way the marriage was heading.

  Hardesty ducked under an incoming. The late December swells were the best he’d surfed in years: ten foot bluebirds, the pulse of far-off storms, a blast to the younger guys like Gringo. But for Wil Hardesty, the waves ebbed and flowed in his veins, part of him.

  He’d started at the Wedge, bodysurfing at fourteen, and nearly drowned. The exhilaration, though, stuck around long after the water had left his lungs. In a month he was riding breakers under the Newport Beach pier—shooting the shit afterward with the foggy morning crowd, sharing lukewarm coffee and sugary Winchells with sand on the glaze. Life then was surf odyssey and outlaw-freedom mystique, San Onofre to Malibu to even-then Rincon, Mickey-this and Corky-that, slow dances to tremolo guitar bands, Coppertone on warm skin. Fun to kick around now when he bumped into other surfing graybeards.

  Back then he’d even done some money gigs before walking away. Ultimately, it had come down to him and the water.

  Thinking how much Devin would have loved it today, he headed in.

  The ’66 Bonneville eased out of Rincon Park and turned south, Wil’s nudge on the pedal conjuring throaty exhaust. He still had hots for the car, stolen virtually from a widow anxious to dump it during the gas crunch. The Bonnie had style; it went like a white bat. It also carried a 9’6” longboard in a partition he’d punched through the back seat. To improve its handling he’d replaced suspension and steering. Other than that, the car was mint.

  Wil rested his arm on the open window; to his left, La Conchita appealed to some inner sense. It was so unexpected: half-mile long, scrunched against the coastal cliffs, a vest-pocket colony not even on most road maps. Northbound drivers escaping LA for the red-tiled splendors of Santa Barbara another fifteen minutes up the road, rarely caught more than two blinks of it in the rear view.

  Which suited him fine.

  Like most locals, he dug the closeness of it. People coexisted—like the housetrailers, mobile homes, beach shacks, stucco houses, redwood decks. Roses grew next to cacti, fuschias next to Spanish Bayonet. And up the street at the north end, bananas, the fruit tree-ripening in bright blue bags. La Conchita itself hadn’t grown much, though. Laid out in ’24, it had waited for the movie stars and city folk to come, some getting as far as Mussel Shoals. After a while the coast highway had brought others: oil workers, smugglers, retirees, surfers, all attracted by cheap lots and two miles of sloping beach.

  Wil checked his watch, knowing Lisa’d be annoyed: Given her accounting practice and his schedule, Sunday was their day. He pulled the car in under the port, between her black Legend coupe and his ancient Harley Super Glide with the For Sale sign, and caught a glimpse of her looking down.

  He waved, unloaded the longboard. Southern Cross: his cornball name for it after the blue stripe crossing red aft of center. Designed to impress other teenage surf rats, fashioned one distant summer following evening shifts at his father’s place. Like himself, it had held up despite hard use.

  Up the wood stairs: cinnamon air, Edward greeting him cockatoo-loud, Lisa with silence. She was in faded jeans and the long-sleeved tee with the parrot on it he’d bought her in Cabo; at her throat, the gold heart held a splash of sunlight. She was curled up on the couch, concentrating hard on the travel section.

  Wil poured coffee, tasted it, heard, “Glad you could make it,” from behind him.

  “The waves were outrageous,” he said, turning. “I was hoping you’d understand.”

  She folded her paper and laid it down. “What I don’t understand is how you can surf at all. Nothing I haven’t said before.”

  “You see the water?”

  “Through the scope, yes. That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “I know what you meant. Can we talk about it later, please?”

  “Later, Wil, sure.” She returned to her paper.

  He peeled out of the wetsuit, showered, toweled off in front of the mirror, more or less pleased with his chest and shoulders, the stomach less so, his evasiveness definitely not. He ran a comb through his hair, its dampness concealing the gray.

  “Everything’s ready,” she said from the doorway, “I’m just reheating.” She handed him part of the muffin she’d started on.

  “Ummm. Corn and jalapeño?”

  She nodded. “They’re probably dry by now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Staying out that long was selfish.”

  “I know.”

  “Forgive me?”

  “Wil…”

  He kissed her
, got some heat, tried it again; this time she spun away. As he dressed, he flashed on the photo—silver-framed longhairs in tie-dyed shirts, him tall in leather hat, her short and headbanded. Lisa Shigeno, with the smooth skin and almond-shaped eyes that still bored holes in his libido. She’d been a junior when he first met her at a l969 UC Santa Barbara basketball game, surprised at how sport-smart she’d been. Interested, he asked her to a photo gallery opening and found out she knew more about Herbert Bayer’s work than he did. Much later, she took him home.

  Her father raised orchids in one of the big greenhouses south of Santa Barbara. Tojio Shigeno had planned on a black-haired samurai for his Japanese daughter and was unimpressed with a six-two blond Aryan—the point driven home with shouts, sulks and threats. To no avail. They’d married right before Wil shipped out the first time and it had stuck—unimaginable to most of their friends, some already on thirds. Which made him hate even more where they seemed to be heading.

  His eyes settled on the smaller, newer frame: Devin Kyle Hardesty, forever ten-almost-eleven. Child of water and to water returned—standing beside the surfboard Wil would always see him on. Four years of trying to have him, two more in therapy…He took a deep breath, finished dressing.

  Later, as they ate, he said, “About this morning—I’d like to make it up, dinner in town tonight. We can talk then if you want.”

  Lisa shook her head. “No. Paul phoned while you were in the shower.”