“What did Sharon say?”
He looks at me offended, takes a moment. “She already said yes. She’s gonna settle the house and meet us later. What do you say, baby? You, me, and Sharon…like it was in the beginning. We’ll be set up for life and protected. But…well, there’s one thing.”
“What?” I don’t blink.
“It’s gonna be hard. Eddie’s got my address book, and if he thinks I’m still alive, he’ll go after Mom—you know, everyone. People will have to think we’re dead. The cops will have to give us complete new identities and move us somewhere in the country where no one will find us. They’re gonna have to fake our death certificates.” He is rambling and takes a deep breath. “It means we can never contact our families again.”
“What? Never?” An immediate sense of grief and sadness burns through my heart at the thought of never seeing my family again. This is cruel. I don’t want Eddie after my family because of me. I’m scared and can’t keep my anguish in anymore; I bury my head in his lap.
“I know. I know, babe. This is the hardest thing in the world to ask you. But I need you. Like I needed you to come back from Oregon. I never meant for this to happen. I only wanted to start over again. But this can be our fresh start anyway. We still can have it, baby. But…but if you don’t…I told them I wouldn’t do it if either of you said no. It’ll be dangerous without protection. But I’d rather be killed on the street than be alone…without you. I love you, Dawn!”
In my mind’s eye, glimpses of my life with John materialize and crash down hard like a terrible storm into broken pieces of concrete and rubble. All that’s left standing in my imagination is John and I, clinging onto each other in the center of an open, barren field. And like a nightmare that I know is mine, he is all that there is for me. Through swollen, burning eyes I look up at him. “Yes, John. I’ll come with you.”
He holds my face in his hands and whispers, “I love you,” as we rock to and fro on the edge of the bathtub. Wiping my tears and his, he kisses my forehead. “Come on. Let’s get some rest.” Sharon doesn’t look our way as we walk out of the bathroom together. She remains stonelike on the sill of the giant corner window, facing the busy lights from the construction site across the street.
We have a fitful sleep in spite of the Valium Sharon hands out to help us rest. After Sharon and I go to bed, John stays in the bathroom smoking the small amount of pot I snuck in for him. The fan buzzes loudly, and I can smell the pungent skunklike odor drift up from the cracks. I’m nervous John will make the police angry.
Finally he crawls under the covers between us, something he has only done when he, Sharon, and I were in Vegas together, and puts an arm over both of us. As I cuddle into him, I notice Sharon has her back toward him on the other side. This is how she always sleeps, but I think it’s cold, considering the emotional decision we’ve all just made to go undercover together.
At least that’s what John told me.
The next morning John is immediately summoned to the adjoining room with Big Tom, Lange, Sousa, and Tomlinson. Everything will be business for him from now on.
Sharon and I pick at our meals and play mindless games of Yahtzee and Scrabble, which we brought from the house, while John meets with the police and higher-ups. Mostly, though, Sharon takes to her usual seat at the window, staring intently at the comings and goings of the busy strangers below.
I say very little and think about the last time I saw my family and if I will be able to tell them good-bye before we leave. Maybe after a while we can come out of hiding and contact them again. I flip through channels, falling in and out of sleep on the California king as the heavy dose of Valium still pumps in my veins.
John returns periodically, an armed gunman glued to his side. Guzzling giant swigs from the Scotch bottle, he plants agitated kisses on our cheeks.
There’s a commotion in the afternoon on the first day. John and Detective Lange rush into the room and need the keys to the Glendale house in a hurry. “People have access to fake official uniforms—police, security—you know, they might try to get into the house,” Lange explains. He sends someone to pick up all of the family’s important papers—for our safety. Sharon doesn’t argue and hands over the keys, and I take this to mean that everything is going as planned. A real, suffocating panic from the impending danger threatens to steal the breath from my lungs and render me immobile, but the detectives are experts at keeping us calm.
After a long first day of interrogation, John returns. Visibly pale and exhausted. He kicks the door behind him and flips them the bird after the lock turns in the small suite for the night. “Fucking assholes. Sons a bitches. Let’s fucking eat.” We order lobster and cherries jubilee and again are served by the shotgun armed guards at our door. Sharon takes her cue and passes out the Valium like an evening mint and we escape, thankfully, into a deadened sleep.
Very early Wednesday morning we are given an alert. John and a handful of detectives rush in and unceremoniously pack our things. Big Tom approaches, explaining calmly, while John bounces off the walls, jumpy like a rubber band, continually wiping his hands on his jeans. “Our intelligence understands there are several contracts out on your lives; it’s been leaked that John is negotiating for the Witness Protection Program. Our sources are pretty sure he’s been located here. We are going to have to move you. We’ll do it separately and right away. We would appreciate it if you would allow these officers to assist you in your relocation. It’s important that we hurry!”
Instantly we switch to autopilot. The plainclothesman separates us, assigning two guards to each of us. Detectives armed with walkie-talkies and handguns in shoulder straps escort us out one by one in different directions. From the room to the elevator to the lobby, there are groups of cops stationed to check and double-check our status on their radios. The elaborate glass elevator descends; a large, heavy, calloused hand weighs itself on my head, and a matching booming voice orders me to keep low. Every action is like a sharp, swift stroke of a perfectly timed blade. When we hit the street in the harsh light of an overcast day, there is but a minute to notice the onlookers or to be noticed by them.
“Stay down,” the officer in charge repeats, holding my head down for the climb into a waiting car. With their hands inside their shoulder holsters, two men on either side lean over me in the backseat, peering up at the hovering skyscrapers of Los Angeles.
What are they doing? Are they protecting me from snipers? I wonder, strangely numb and removed. This is like scenes from Hawaii Five-O. This can’t be real. I worry about Sharon and John. What’s going on in their minds? Are they getting shot at?
A few blocks away the Biltmore Hotel, a 1920s classy brick building with ornate columns and marble carvings, spreads out over large green parks and taller contemporary skyscrapers. The black undercover car I’m in pulls into a back service entrance, where we meet yet another pair of cops waiting to escort us from the loading dock to the kitchen service elevator.
The eleventh floor of the Biltmore Hotel hosts the presidential suite. Royally decorated, it is used for just that—presidents. I think of the Kennedys and magazine images I remember of the White House in the 1960s. John and Sharon are already settling into the master bedroom when I am ushered in. These are to be our quarters. The kitchen, dining room, smaller bedrooms, and huge sunken living room are arranged for the police and the “important people” John is preparing to meet.
Big Tom returns, all business now. “Settle in and order some lunch. We’re pulling together the people we spoke to about John. We’ll try to have something for you first thing tomorrow. So use your time wisely and rest up. Should have some news for ya by this afternoon.”
John mumbles something in the affirmative and waves him out.
We’re all extremely weary and drained, but John looks like he is about to collapse. The thought of having contracts out on our lives is traumatic and, to me, so completely unrealistic I cannot wrap my mind around the thought. The knowledge of ho
w well we are being protected offers some solace, but nothing is appealing except to get this ordeal over with.
Again, Sharon finds her spot immediately on the ledge by the window while I try to find a television show to numb my mind. John chugs down some more Scotch, the bottle already waiting in the room. He orders steak for us even though the thought of food turns our stomachs. Then he orders a side of cognac and Cuban cigars for himself.
Word is passed along to us that John is to talk to the bigwigs in the morning. A shrouded group of influential people will gather in the formal sunken living room at the center of the penthouse suite and record all the sordid details of John’s criminal information. This is really going to happen. I am convinced. He has given the police information through Big Tom for years, and Tom is someone who can help John do this…and do it right.
The knock on the door cracks earlier than we want it to. It is time. John is fidgety and busies himself with insignificant things, running in and out of the bathroom, stalling for time.
“Come on, John.” Lange stands at the door, his jacket off, the pistol in his shoulder holster on the outside of his dress shirt exposed.
“Okay. Well, this is it.” John bends down for a kiss from Sharon and me. “Wish me luck!”
Sharon and I make small talk about the hotel. “This place was built in the early 1920s. Lots of celebrities stayed here…politicians, dignitaries…” Sharon recites a part of Los Angeles history, a calming exercise for her. I head over to the television and flip through the channels again. News of the murders airs intermittently, and when it seems we can’t escape the headlines, we turn the television off.
At lunch John returns with few words and a troubled expression etched on his brow.
“See them?” As the door swings open for John to leave, we catch a glimpse of the men sitting on the couch. “That’s John Van de Kamp, the district attorney,” she whispers, raising her eyebrows to add severity. The level of John’s confession rises to the highest ranks.
The late afternoon sun streaks through the fancy curtains, casting a blinding glare of abstract lines against the walls. John walks in looking thoroughly dejected, Tom Lange close at his heels.
“Well, that’s it!” Lange announces angrily.
“That’s it? Are we leaving?” I ask, confused.
Sharon’s head shoots toward the detective.
“No, I mean pack it up. You’re going home in the morning.”
“Home. Okay.” At first I assume he is speaking about a new undercover home, but by John’s slumped shoulders and averted gaze, I surmise that there is something very wrong.
“Johnny here isn’t going to give us what we came for, so we’re cutting him loose. Let him take his chances on the outside. Gotta couple hours to change your mind, Johnny. You know where we’ll be.” Lange leaves the room.
Does this mean they could kill us on the streets?
Sharon and I are incredulous, shocked, and speechless. John avoids my question about whether we’re leaving. Keeping his distance from me and Sharon, he pops another Valium and crawls under the covers. “I gave them what they wanted. Fuck ‘em.” He puts his hand over his face to block us out, turns his back, and completely withdraws from any more questions—especially from ours.
Tom Lange drives Sharon and me to Glendale the morning of July 11. John has left to go through an official release process and to pick up the dogs boarded at the kennel. Being out of protective custody with nothing resolved makes me extremely uneasy. Sharon is ever silent, her gaze remaining focused out the back window, and I can only guess that she is scared too.
“What happened?” I ask.
“John didn’t give us what he promised, so the deal is off.” Irritation rings in his voice.
“Off? But what about the contracts out on us? We’ll be killed!”
“I’m sorry. We’ll try to protect you as best we can, but we really can’t help that much.”
“But John gave you the information you wanted,” I cry.
“No. He fed us bullshit! We think he’s stalling, protecting Eddie Nash…and wasting all of our time. Sorry.” With nothing more said, Detective Tom Lange drops us off and wishes us good luck.
Drapes drawn, doors locked, we lie low, tiptoeing around corners and startled at every shadow. Sharon, John, and I barely speak to one another. Sharon hides out in the small corner of the kitchen, engaged in mind-numbing tasks. Deep in thought, she does the dishes in long, slow, soapy strokes.
John confronts her briefly by the kitchen sink and they exchange short, heavy whispers. Sharon slips past John. With an uncomfortable, anguished expression twisting her normally statuelike dark features, she grabs her purse and leaves for a “quick errand.”
The once impounded Malibu is parked next to the cottage camouflaged beneath the shadow of the giant magnolia tree. I try to calm the excitement of the dogs, the dancing of their toenails like falling rain on a tin roof, hollow and depressed. Sharon returns balancing her heavy purse and plain brown paper grocery bags. Frantically John unpacks them, lining up several spray paint cans in a long row on the varnished counter.
“Here. Come on.” He hands me a can of spray paint and motions for me to follow. Outside he crouches down on the ground next to the Malibu and pulls me down with him, spraying sloppy streaks of gray primer over the weathered dark blue sides. “Hurry.” John nudges my arm. He pops off the cap of rust red paint and sprays wild strokes on the black textured vinyl top, leaving blatant, conspicuous streaks and drips.
It looks like dried blood, I think. It’s a bad sign. “What are we doing, John?”
“We gotta get out of here…and fast. Once they find out I’m out of jail, they’ll be looking for us. There are contracts out on us. Get it? Death contracts. So we gotta get out of this state and hide somewhere. Sorry, baby.” He squeezes my hand. “Fucking cops.”
I know we are going on the run now, not from the police, but from something far worse—evil, looking for us—and we need to run for our lives.
The spray paint cans empty fast. We have covered most of the Chevy’s original color. John holds my hand and dashes into the house, keeping close to the bushes and trees. “Pack your things. Only what you need.”
Sharon is already in the bedroom rolling John’s clothes into tight, neat bundles in plastic garbage bags.
“Sharon, come on,” he calls. “We need to get this done.”
Like many times in their relationship, it seems Sharon simply obeys John’s barking orders, but she already knows what this means. I watch her actions to determine what will happen next. She removes an old, white tablecloth from a kitchen drawer and drapes it around John’s shoulders. With scissors that appear out of nowhere, she snips at his shaggy curls, hacking and trimming a hair’s breadth from his scalp. I think of her nurse’s training, all the times she cleaned a wound or wrapped a bandage, and I picture her in an operating room performing surgery.
“Here. You can have the honor of doing that.” She nods to a box of jet-black hair dye on the counter.
Darkness falls; the crickets are screeching loudly outside. I wish they would quiet down so I can hear any other noises—unfamiliar noises—from the courtyard outside.
John packs the still wet car as his cropped black hair dries. Accidental drips of jet-black dye stain his forehead, and a long one runs down his cheek. The newly acquired short, dark dome of hair shadows his features and dulls the blue of his eyes to gray. He hands me Thor, wrapped in a blanket Sharon has warmed in the dryer, and asks me to meet him in the car. He takes one last look behind him, and I do as I’m told.
John and Sharon whisper privately for only a few short, hurried minutes. Their bodies are rigid, and Sharon keeps her head turned away from John.
John whips around and instantly appears in the driver’s seat. “Ready, baby? Well…we’re finally getting out of here!” He smiles a shaded reaper’s grin.
“What’s Sharon doing?”
“She’s gonna meet us, baby. Don’t
worry. She’s gonna catch up to us soon.”
The Safeway parking lot a few blocks away is garbage-strewn, dark, and nearly deserted, except for the homeless man guarding his shopping cart full of cans. Within minutes Sharon pulls up in her aunt’s pale green Valiant. John jumps out of the car to meet her. A white envelope exchanges hands, and he reaches over to wrap his arms around her five-foot-two frame. She is stiff, arms to her side; then she awkwardly breaks free.
Sliding quickly past him, she heads over to my lonely silhouette in the passenger seat.
“Hi.” I show her a brave smile.
“Hi…Well…this is it.” She hesitates. Time is frozen for a minute, like the low, gathering fog, as her brown eyes bore intensely into mine. “I love you, Dawn,” she blurts with a heave of her shoulders, and she reaches in to give me a warm hug.
“I love you too, Sharon. It’ll be okay,” I reassure her.
“I know. Well, good-bye. Take care of him.”
“I will, Sharon. I will. We’ll see you soon.”
John swoops in to hold Sharon’s reluctant small frame once again before she turns away and drives off, profile unflinching, eyes straight ahead.
“John? When will she be coming?” I ask once again.
“Soon, baby. As soon as we get settled, we’ll let her know where we are and she’ll meet us. She needs to close up the house anyway.”
“Yeah.” I believe John, so I don’t question it. I am anxious to be on the way out of LA and to safety.
Driving through the vibrantly lit streets, I recognize Hollywood. “Where are we going, John?” An uneasy feeling churns in my gut.
“Gotta make one more stop before we go.” He flashes me that unsettling grin again.
“No. John. No! We don’t need to stop anywhere! Let’s just go. Please. We don’t need anything.” I panic. Please don’t let him stop for drugs.
The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Page 40