The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  A look of stunned disbelief came over her.

  “You’re in a coma,” he finished.

  “You mean . . .” She faded away for a bit. When she came back, wonder was in her voice. “You mean I didn’t die in that car crash?”

  The sky glowed white with a purple tint, as if far off beyond the horizon a purple sun was floating. The air was slightly warmer, and he felt the sand sliding between his knees as he shifted his weight. “No. You didn’t. You were seriously hurt, though.”

  Leaving one hand with his, she brought the other up to her mouth and asked the question he knew was coming. “How long?”

  He tightened his lips with somberness before he replied, “Seven months.”

  The air came out of her in a long sigh that made her shrink in on herself. Her shoulders slouched, and her head dropped as the sobs came over her and racked her body like vicious blows. She fell forwards, into him, and he caught her up in his arms, and the questions she asked next were fired off so rapidly that they were almost unintelligible. “My mom? Is my mom okay? What do the doctors say? What are they doing to help me? Do they think I’m going to die? What about my sisters? Oh my God, what is this doing to my family?”

  She stopped, then pulled away from him and gripped his arms in pure panic. “Bernie. My mom. This must be killing my mom, Bernie!”

  He didn’t want to answer but his face must’ve done so for him, somehow telegraphing the sad memories he had of her mother the few times he’d seen her, early on during his visits, and all the stories that the staff at the care facility relayed to him, of an old woman broken bit by bit with each passing day, until she was formally shattered by the visits to her daughter’s bedside.

  “Bernie,” she moaned, “if I’m not dead, then I have to get out of here. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How? How am I going to do that?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, looking from her face to the water all around them and back again. “But I have a feeling that’s why I’m here. And we’ll figure it out together, you and I.”

  She offered the tiniest smile of relief. “We will?”

  He nodded firmly. “We will.”

  Hector awoke in the dead of night, uncovered, his fingers still laced behind his head, his shoulders numb. Realizing that he must’ve dozed off, he was marveling at the silence of the prison when he heard a creaking in the cot above him. This was nothing new—bunk beds in prison were notoriously loud—but Roberto was still in solitary. Which meant no one could be sleeping in the bunk above him, unless it was . . .

  A pair of stubby legs swung down from above.

  Sweet dreams? The Smiling Midget said, kicking his feet back and forth like a third grader on a swing set.

  The weight of dread and terror that came crashing down over Hector was so pervasive that he could barely breathe. He tried to swallow but his throat locked up and his mouth went bone dry. No, no, no, no, no, no . . .

  The Smiling Midget hopped down to the floor and turned to face Hector. Yes, yes, yes, yes—me, boy-o! It’s me, your old pal, to help with your rather jacked-up predicament here.

  It took a moment before Hector found his voice. “You can’t be here. No way.”

  What? But I promised you, remember? Back at my friend Wally’s house, when you killed him. Poor Wally. He paused as his smile went upside down. He added grimly, But I promised you.

  Hector was so dazed that all he could do was shake his head in dismay.

  I promised you that we’d finish things, you and I, on the inside, he said, his smile turning to a hateful sneer before his lips bounced gleefully back into place. And, well . . . look! Here we are! Back home. On the inside!

  “No!”

  Oh. Yes-sir-ee. The Smiling Midget chuckled. Just the two of us. Once again I’m here to help your sorry ass survive. He did a little carnival dance before he continued. Because without me? In here? You, sir, are a dead man.

  Hector sat up. “Screw you, you little rat bastard.”

  The Smiling Midget reached out suddenly and touched Hector’s arm with the nubs of his right hand. Hector felt as if he were instantly on fire. He screamed and pulled himself backwards, across the cot, his back hitting the wall with a painful thump.

  I’ve had it up to here with you, boy, The Smiling Midget said, holding his hand horizontal a few feet above his head. Oops! He laughed. Sorry. I keep forgetting my real size. He lowered his hand to just below his chin.

  “Look. I don’t need your help,” Hector replied. And for the first time since arriving here, he called on the blue.

  But no power came.

  Shouldn’t have let me touch youuuuu, The Smiling Midget teased. Then he sighed, deeply, before he added, You’re so green that you’re simply froggy, my boy! C’mon, Hectorino! Be a good frog! Call on that stupid power of yours again. C’mon. Jump! The Smiling Midget leapt effortlessly onto the toilet—Jump!—then on to the sink before taking one more leap to the tiny windowsill, the toes of his boots jamming hard into the cement as he braced his arms into the frame to hold himself in place, his neck craning sickeningly to one side.

  Hector looked around, but The Smiling Midget was way ahead of him. Ah. You’re looking for your gray friend? That hurts my feelings, Hector. I was your friend first. And besides, he can’t get in here anyway. Too much evil for his kind, ya know?

  Hector’s legs felt weak, but he managed to get off his cot and stand. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Close! So close. Not what the hell are you talking about, but what in hell are you talking about, Hector. There’re two sides in this war. And this place here? It’s behind enemy lines, boy.

  “Yeah?”

  Yeah. And what they’re talking about in hell, at least in my tiny corner of it, is the silly little gangster who was rotten to the core but now thinks he’s a hero on a mission of some kind.

  “Shut up.”

  The Smiling Midget’s lips went tight, like a Kewpie doll’s, as he jumped to the floor and widened his eyes, his head still stuck in a sideways position. Hector. Hector. Hector.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Why? What would be the fun in that? The Smiling Midget shrugged and straightened his neck, the bones popping in place as he did so. Your Gray friend? He doesn’t realize that it’s too late for you, Hector. You’ve been a good little soldier for our side for too long. That side? It’s always so . . . naïve. So hopeful, and all that other nauseating crap.

  “I won’t fail!” he screamed. Faintly, from far away, he felt the blue coming. Time. He just needed a little more time.

  The Smiling Midget put his arms out straight and began to put one foot in front of the other, as if he were walking a tightrope towards Hector. Step by step, he made his way, until they were only a few feet apart. Oh, yes, you will! he said with a giggle. I’m here to help you, before it’s too late, because an old friend is coming for you, boy-o. She spared you last time because she was ordered to. But I got your back. And if we can kill Curtis before she gets here? It’ll be all good.

  The blue was almost there. Hector prayed for it. Begged for it. Please, please. If it came in time, he could kill The Smiling Midget where he stood. If only—

  The blue! The blue! The blue! The Smiling Midget shrieked in mock hysteria before he cast his arms wide like a vaudeville actor, threw his head back and screamed with mock glee, Oh, the wonderful blue will save the day!

  As the blue finally arrived it sputtered in Hector’s hands.

  Like I said . . . you’re so . . . damned . . . green. The Smiling Midget shook his head and blinked away. Hector sat and looked at the meager drops of blue that had pooled in his palms. He still had no training in how to use it. In how to do anything, really.

  And if The Gray Man could not get to him to show him, he was doomed.

  Chapter Five

  After Trudy was finally discharged from Huntington Hospital, being brought out to the curb against her protests in a wheelcha
ir by a candy striper half her age, the mood had gotten quiet as she and Parker began the drive to Napa. Even though they had talked it over a dozen times, she was still not happy with being carted to her parents’ house in Wine Country. So, after the obligatory hug and kiss hello, the debate began yet again.

  “This is bullshit,” she said, her voice heavy with post-hospital-stay weariness.

  Parker sighed. “It’s necessary.”

  She ran her fingers through her red hair, pushing it back. “I feel dirty and disgusting. I want to go home, my home, and take a long, hot shower. I don’t see why—”

  Knowing that this conversation was going to take an even harder turn in a few minutes, Parker decided to nip this particular phase of drama in the bud now. “Our home is shot to pieces, Trudy. There’s still blood on the carpet and walls. Until three days ago, it was still a crime scene.”

  Silence. Cold and penetrating. The truth hurt, and the truth was that they would never live in that apartment again. Together, yes. But there? No. The rain had gone back to a drizzle-dance, accompanied by a chilly sideways wind that had made Trudy grimace when Parker had loaded her in the car. It evidently still chilled her, as she reached up and redirected the heater vents as they drove down Walnut Street, the parked cars on the curbs whizzing by in alternating colors. Finally, she bit her lip and uttered one word. “Great.”

  It was one thing to survive what she had, quite another to come to grips with the aftermath. Parker knew this all too well. Trudy’s struggles had begun the first time she saw the protective detail outside her hospital room. That’s when it evidently hit her: life as she knew it had changed greatly, in ways she never considered, because of the love she had for Parker. Push comes to shove, all the romantic proclamations in the world begin to waiver a bit once it becomes clear that you can be killed for loving the person you love. Parker let her waiver all over the place the first few days, knowing full well that she would never give up on him, nor he on her.

  Still. The details of the aftermath had to be worked out, and she had no idea that Napa was the least of the issues they had left to discuss. Luckily, or maybe not, they had a six-hour drive in which to discuss them.

  Sadness crept into his voice. “I’m sorry, Trud.”

  He heard her breath catch in her throat as she swiftly wiped at one of her eyes. Her lower lip shaking, she took a deep breath and replied. “It’s not your fault, Evan.”

  They merged onto the on-ramp to the 210 West, pulled around a white Nissan and accelerated into the flow of traffic.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “My head doesn’t hurt anymore. Vision is fine. No more blurriness. But my face still hurts when I chew.”

  “The pain meds helping?”

  “A little. Mostly with sleep. But they make me groggy as hell.”

  “You okay to talk? You want me to just turn on the radio for a bit?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

  He nodded and put on her favorite R&B station, even though R&B to him was like a trip to the dentist’s office. They drove down the 210 to the 5 Freeway, which he took north. After a bit, he looked over to see that she was resting her head against a sweater she’d placed between herself and the window and had dozed off. Good. She needed rest more than anything. She looked pale and weak and the sight of her like that threatened to resurrect his rage. No. Not here. Not now. Not yet.

  It was when they were driving through Castaic, about forty-five minutes later, when the memories of him and Napoleon making this same drive, during the Fasano case, hit him. Up and down the 5 Freeway they’d gone, like dogs after a spooked rabbit, never realizing all along that they were tangling with forces way beyond anyone’s comprehension. Then, after that, he’d used the 5 Freeway to go to Beaumont, too, a little town run by Sheriff Conch, to help catch The Bread Man, who had lived quietly in that town for years, killing dozens of women in the surrounding counties before being flushed out by happenstance, good police work and . . . here it was again . . . forces way beyond anyone’s comprehension.

  Nervously, Parker checked the rearview mirror, half expecting and also half hoping to see Napoleon there. And why not? Hadn’t his dead partner come back to help teach him about those very same forces? Yes. He had. But he was nowhere to be seen now.

  The rain was steady and made the traffic worse, but he was in no hurry. Trudy rested, and Parker drove, contemplating the path ahead of him and whether he was really going to take it.

  He didn’t have to wait long, however, for his decision to become crystal clear. It happened an hour later, when they stopped off at a Burger King so Trudy could use the restroom and they could grab a bite to eat. He watched her use her hand to cover the cuts and bruises on her face as she went inside. Shame and humiliation were in her eyes and Parker knew, right then, what he had to do. What he was going to do.

  An hour later, back in the car with their bellies full, he decided to get the first part of what he had to say over with. She was sipping the straw aimlessly on a cup of Dr. Pepper when he told her he’d quit the force.

  “You . . . what?!” she said, turning to him in utter shock.

  “I had to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they were taking me off the case.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “What case? This case?”

  “Yeah.”

  She put her drink in the cup holder of the center console and pushed her hands outward in small defensive motions to slow walk him through her thoughts. “Okay. So. Let me get this straight. You’re on a case that almost gets us both killed. Why? Because you supposedly love your job. Then, when the shit hits the fan, you quit that same job?”

  “No. That’s not what I said.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. I didn’t quit because the shit hit the fan. I quit because they’re not going to let me stay on the case and make things right.”

  “Make things right? How? By catching this lunatic?”

  “Yeah!”

  She licked her lips before making them a tight line. He knew this look; she was getting her Irish up. Not good. But also not a surprise. “Okay. So. For the record? Just so we’re straight? I’m okay with this decision. I never saw myself as ever being with a cop and I get sick to my stomach every day you walk out the door to go to work, and quite honestly, I’ve never slept worse in my life. I am . . . constantly . . . worried about you. So. Cool. If you’re leaving because you’ve suddenly decided to be a stock broker or to go back to school or some shit, fine. But that’s not what I’m hearing.”

  Parker sighed. “Fine. What are you hearing?”

  “I’m hearing that you had a childish meltdown with your boss and stomped off.”

  “That’s not really—”

  “Oh, but it is!” she said, her face incredulous as she blinked. “And why? Well, I don’t know the rules of the police gig, but I’m guessing that having you stay on a case where your girlfriend has almost just been killed is a big no-no, right?”

  He nodded.

  “It is a no-no? Just to clarify, for sure now?”

  He nodded again, resenting that he was being mocked but still aware that he was the one who had started this.

  The thing about Trudy that amazed him, almost beyond belief, was that it never, ever took her very long to connect the dots that were in his head. He imagined them both old and gray someday, finishing each other’s sentences. Except, well, she could already do that with him. She could read him like a book and earmark whatever pages that needed further focus, and as she sat there ruminating in the passenger seat, Parker thought she was doing just that.

  “So . . . you actually quit because they won’t let you go after him?”

  He shrugged his affirmation.

  Trudy put her head in her hands, her voice going flat and hard. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  Parker cleared his throat and drove, the inside of the car suddenly feeling much too small.

  Maggie exited the port-a
-potty and squinted against the harsh sky above. She still had no idea where the hell they were. But she could guess from the signs she’d seen thus far, which were all in Spanish, that they were probably in Mexico. She knew that Tijuana, Ensenada and Rosarito were popular touristy spots south of the border, but as Eenie grabbed her elbow and began pulling her back to the shelter, Maggie realized she couldn’t even see a stray dog around their location, much less a tourist.

  She forced herself back on point. The place was a dirt patch of pure boredom, which left no room for anything but routine, and if Eenie followed his, he would have his little perv moment when he got her back in the shack. She braced herself for it and told herself to just go with it for once. If it got her what she wanted, who cared. But there was a sickening ball of fear in the pit of her stomach that she might give too much ground and he’d get too excited and . . . She didn’t want to think about that. But the pragmatist in her would have it no other way. She couldn’t help but think about how she was not on the pill or any other contraceptive, so there was the very real possibility that if this whole ordeal didn’t get her killed, she could still end up pregnant with some murdering thug’s baby.

  By breaking Güero’s orders, the idiot had to know that he would get himself killed. But a man with a hard-on was the dumbest creature that ever lived. He might risk it. And if he did? Well, now that she thought about it, Güero’s fantasy of having Maggie to himself would be spoiled and that would probably get a bullet put in her head, too.

  Like it or not, though, her body was her greatest asset right now, not as an object, but as a tool. So she would use it.

  Once in the shack, he guided Maggie to a spot in the corner out of sight of the cot where Luisa was lying, half asleep. Maggie’s feet then tangled with his as he eagerly pushed her face-first against the wall. He pinned her wrists together and began dry humping her backside. Yep. Each time, he was getting more brazen. Going just a little further.