by Tom Mohan
A sudden gust of wind snapped the aged awning taut. The breeze reeked with the stench of garbage and stale alcohol. It carried something else as well, something nearly hidden in the stink. He turned his face into the wind and inhaled deeply. He was certain it was the perfume Laura used to wear. The thought of her brought a stab of pain to his heart.
Burke reached a shaking hand into his jacket and pulled a picture from an inside pocket. Smiling faces in happier times. His wife, Laura, their daughter, Sara, and himself. All of them with that goofy look that said all was well with the world. He closed his eyes and let the scent of Laura’s perfume wash over him until it became too real, too close. He forced his eyes open, and there she stood like a ghost reflected in the dirty window. With each flash of neon light his reflection appeared next to hers, as though they stood together in the dark store. She looked just as she had when he last saw her—long, chestnut hair in a ponytail, wearing a sleeveless white summer blouse and the jeans she practically lived in when not at work.
He stood frozen in place as another ghost swirled beside that of his wife. This one was smaller, but as the image materialized it became clear that she was a miniature of the older woman. Her daughter.
His daughter.
Burke stood in the rain, staring at the specters only he could see. Both images looked up at him with identical accusatory looks. You did this to us, their eyes said. This is your fault! His conscience, his dreams, and now the apparitions before him had made that very clear. He accepted his guilt. Without releasing him from its dark stare, the figure of the child moved its hand until it pointed at the display case. Yes, she knew, too, that death was the answer, that justice was not fulfilled while he still walked the earth. The ghostly images of his family faded, leaving him again gazing at the display case and the peace it offered.
“No.” Burke gave the picture of his family one more look before slipping it back into his pocket. “Not yet. You’re out there somewhere, and I will find you.”
Tears mixed with raindrops as he limped into the night.
John Burke stumbled through thick darkness. He sensed things lurking all around—dangerous things, waiting to pounce. His daughter’s shrieking wails surrounded him. His wife’s anguished sobs faded in and out of the background. He struggled to pinpoint the direction of the cries—every time he thought he had, they moved. Hostile eyes bore into him from deep within the blackness.
Is this death? Did I finally do it?
A manifestation in the darkness brushed against his probing hand. He flinched and pulled away. Again he reached out, and again something deflected his hand. This time came the realization that the shrieks and sobs had subsided, replaced by the sounds of chirping birds.
As the dream faded, Burke felt the presence of someone else. He opened his eyes to see a dirty little face inches from his own. Through the dirt and grime he could tell he was looking at a girl no more than four or five years old. A matted mop of red curls framed her dirty face before dropping over tiny shoulders. At first she simply stared at him. Then, her face broke into a huge smile like she was about to have her picture taken. The girl extended her skinny arm toward him, and Burke’s gaze followed it to where it disappeared into his jacket. She giggled, spun around, and took off. As she pulled away, her hand slipped from his jacket and brushed against his own. A jolt of electricity shot up his arm, traveling through his shoulder and neck and erupting in his mind like a supernova. For a brief moment it was as if the universe opened up to him, all of its secrets peeled away to expose the very truth of all existence. Then the feeling was gone, leaving him awed yet somehow empty. He stared at the receding little girl in wonder.
As he watched her speed away, Burke took in his surroundings. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, the door beside him open. He was certain it had been locked. How had the girl opened it without waking him? He ran a hand across his tired face and looked out the open door. Presidio Park stretched before him. In no mood to go home, he had driven to the park after leaving the pawnshop and fallen asleep. Pale light in the overcast sky told him he had slept through the night. Burke reached into his jacket where the girl’s hand had been. He had nothing to steal, nothing valuable. His heart jumped, and his hand probed deeper. He unzipped the jacket and searched all of his pockets, but the picture of his family was gone.
Burke pulled himself out of the car. The ground and bushes around him were wet from the morning drizzle.
“Hey, get back here,” he yelled into the empty park.
He took two steps, and sharp pain shot up his bad right hip. The tiny car was no place to sleep, and he was stiff from the hours spent there.
A giggle to his right pulled him in that direction. His stiff muscles loosened up as he moved, and in a few moments he felt almost normal. He remembered days long ago when he and Laura had brought Sara here to play. The park had still been maintained then. Cactus, aloe, and desert weeds now dominated the once-pristine landscape. The headless statue of some forgotten soldier stood sentinel over the area. Beside the statue, a wall that had once boasted a mural of a Mormon battalion now shouted FOR A GOOD TIME CALL EVE in bright blue and red graffiti.
Burke caught a flash of red beyond the weed-choked memorial and saw the little girl sprinting across the open, her bare feet flying much faster than he would have thought possible. Dwarfed pine trees dotted the area that used to be the kids’ playground. The swings and other park amusements had long ago been removed due to the high cost of insurance.
He kept his eye on the girl until she disappeared beyond another dip in the park. As he neared the place where he had lost sight of her, the roof of the old restrooms came into view. The city had put some effort into keeping these. After all, if the homeless who gathered in the park had somewhere to relieve themselves, they would not do so in the surrounding neighborhoods, which were still somewhat affluent. Burke let momentum carry him down the hill to where a cracked asphalt path picked up near the restrooms. This relic of what used to be a popular walkway had long been ignored in favor of the dirt paths that led down into the overgrown canyon in the park’s center. Burke followed the one the girl had taken, slowing his downhill pace to avoid tumbling headfirst down the steep trail.
A covey of quail exploded up in front of him, their flapping wings crashing through the silence that had a moment ago been filled with only his rasping breath. Burke’s feet nearly went out from under him as he slid to a halt on a carpet of pine needles. He stood there for a moment and squinted into the shadows that half hid the canyon floor. Cold air oozed up from within, carrying with it the stench of sewage and who knew what else.
He was on the verge of turning back the way he had come, when he heard a familiar giggle to his left. Another trail, nearly hidden in dense scrub, led off the path he had been following. The moment he turned his attention from the depths of the canyon and back to the little girl, the day seemed to brighten and grow warmer. He limped to the newly discovered trail and followed it as it led up to the rim of the canyon.
Burke’s breathing came in ragged gasps as he climbed the last few steps into the hazy sunlight at the top of the trail. He found himself in a flat area that held two faded green concrete picnic tables. There was no sign of the girl. Dragging himself to one of the tables, he collapsed on the hard bench. His breathing was coming back under control when he heard people talking behind him. The voices grew louder as they approached. Burke raised his head and turned to see a group of four people coming down a short flight of stone stairs. They looked to be teenagers, though it was hard to tell through the tattoos. The kid in the lead stopped when he saw Burke and held out one arm, halting his friends behind him. A sudden smile crossed the kid’s mouth, white teeth in the dark hues of ink that covered his face. Burke thought one of them might be a girl, but he wasn’t sure.
“Hey, look what we have here,” said the one who appeared to be the leader. “This day might not be so boring after all.”
Burke groaned as the group a
pproached. They formed a rough circle around the table, the one who had spoken standing in front of him. He started to pull himself to his feet, but the kid shoved him back down on the hard bench.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Leave me alone.” He again tried to get his feet under him, but someone behind him reached over the table, grabbed the neck of his coat, and pulled him back down.
“My friend asked you a question,” a voice behind him said. “It would be bad manners not to answer. You do know what manners are, don’t you?”
Without warning, the kid in front of Burke spun in a full circle and kicked him in the side of the head. Before his brain could register what had happened, he was lying on the ground, fireworks exploding across his vision. The kick that followed struck his ribs. The one after that connected with his stomach and drove the air from his lungs. He curled into the fetal position, one hand across his midsection while the other attempted to cover his head.
Strong hands grabbed both of his arms and pulled him to his knees. He looked up. Another fist. Burke lowered his head, and the punch connected with little more than his hair. He sensed the next blow coming, and the martial arts training from his teen years took over. The hands holding his arms were more for support than restraint. Red-hot fury shot through him. He let his body sag backward. The punch passed above his head while his right foot shot out and connected squarely with his assailant’s crotch. Burke slid his right arm from his coat sleeve and jabbed an open palm into the chest of the kid holding his left arm. The blow caught the kid off-guard, and he fell back. Burke then drove his elbow into the gut of the teen who still held his jacket sleeve. Burke scrambled to get up, but was knocked back down as a foot connected with his bruised ribs. A shot to the back of his head landed him face down in the dirt once again. Then they were all over him.
Kicks and punches struck nearly every part of Burke’s body. A boot to his head left him limp and numb. With great effort, he managed to open one eye. Through blurred vision, he saw a small shadow not far from him. His gaze cleared just enough to catch a glimpse of a little girl with dirty bare feet wearing a sack as a dress. She had the face of an angel—an angel whose downcast eyes did not rise to meet his own. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and then she faded along with everything else.
Officer Dave Martinez pulled his police car into the deserted parking lot. Long-neglected asphalt crunched beneath the tires. The emptiness of the place saddened him. Not long ago, families enjoyed the park, young people slipped in to be romantic, and many simply reveled in the beauty of the outdoors. The downcast and homeless were about the only ones who frequented the parks anymore. Heck, it was rare to see people outside at all. The 4D virtual reality games, along with synthetic drugs that enhanced pseudo-reality, kept most kids, and a lot of adults, locked away with their fantasies.
With a sigh, Martinez turned off the engine and opened the car door. Humid air washed over him. He unfolded his six-foot-five frame from the car and stretched. San Diego never used to have this kind of humidity. It wasn’t even 8 a.m., and he was already sweating, another sign the weather was getting weirder every year. Another thing no one really cared about anymore. They used to blame cars and the pollution they spewed for the changing weather, but it had been a decade since soaring gas prices had brought the country almost to a halt. People still drove, of course, but the days of driving anywhere and everywhere were long over. Another reason to stay home and live in fantasyland.
Martinez strolled to the edge of the parking lot and admired the view out over I-8 and Mission Valley. From this distance, he could almost pretend he was looking at the San Diego of his childhood.
The sound of laughter drew his attention. The only laughter he could remember hearing around here was the drunken kind, and not even that at this time of morning. He hitched up his belt, ensuring his weapon was easily accessible, and walked quietly across the lot. When he reached the edge of the asphalt, he paused—listening. New sounds, still laughter, but now mixed with thuds and grunts of pain. For some, the ability to experience practically any lifelike fantasy in the privacy of their own homes had grown boring. Eventually they came outside, where the line between fantasy and reality was razor thin. The real junkies thrived on crossing that line. Martinez hurried along the short dirt path to the top of the stone steps that led down to what had once been a picnic area. He saw people in the clearing below, huddled around something. Two of them were kicking whatever it was.
“What’re you doing down there?” Martinez called. He had long ago learned to keep his voice calm but authoritative. Recognizing the ink of the South Side Creepers, he moved his hand closer to his weapon. The Creepers were not one of the more violent gangs, not outside the games anyway, but they could be trouble nonetheless.
A kid looked up at him. “Cop,” he said to his friends. His tone carried no urgency or even concern. The rest of them stopped what they were doing and turned toward Martinez. One of the two who had been kicking the helpless form that now lay still between them looked up at Martinez with a big smile, as though greeting an old friend.
“What’s up, cop?” the kid said. “We were pretty much finished with this.” He gave the victim another kick before turning and strolling off into the trees lining the canyon, his friends following close behind.
Martinez doubted they would have left at all if not for his size. His biceps, shoulders, and chest stretched the material of his uniform to the very limits. Martinez’s fists clenched as their laughter faded. He considered going after them, but a moan from the wretch they had been beating on drew him to the higher priority. Besides, one cop going off by himself into the canyon after four Creepers was plain stupid. And David Martinez was not stupid.
Martinez radioed for backup and an ambulance before kneeling beside the injured man who lay face down on the ground. He was covered in dirt, but his clothes looked in too good of shape for him to be one of the local homeless. He smelled too clean as well. Probably some guy from the neighborhood wandered into the park and got himself mugged.
“Great, just great. What am I supposed to do with you?”
Martinez gave the man a once-over. He saw no external injuries, but with the man’s face in the dirt, it was impossible to tell how much damage there might be. He considered his options and decided it would probably be best to risk further damage and roll the guy over than to be overly cautious and not move him. If those punks had stabbed him, his lifeblood could be soaking the ground beneath him while Martinez sat here waiting for the paramedics.
The decision made, Martinez gently rolled the victim over. He spread the man’s coat open and checked him for obvious damage. There was blood on his shirt, but it appeared to have dripped from his face and not from any undiscovered injury. Martinez took a good look at the man. He looked familiar, but his face was already swelling from the beating he had taken. Definitely not one of the local street people.
The victim groaned. Martinez did a quick frisk of the man’s trouser pockets in search of some form of identification, but they were empty. A similar search of his jacket pockets revealed nothing more, but when he pulled open the coat, he saw the top of something peeking from within an inside pocket. He carefully pulled it out and saw it was a photograph, bent and well-worn, of a man, woman, and girl of middle-school age. They were a nice-looking family, casually dressed and happy. He looked closer at the face of the man in the picture. Martinez knew these people. He gazed back down at the man on the ground, who was slowly regaining consciousness. “John Burke?”
Martinez had worked the disappearances four years ago when he was still a detective. Six teenagers and three adults had vanished from a church youth meeting. John Burke’s wife and daughter had been among those missing. The common theory was that they had been part of a wacko religious cult that had taken the kids off to some jungle somewhere. Martinez had never bought into that theory, especially considering the other strange aspects of the case, but politics and anti-religio
n bias had pushed it into the realm of the unimportant. Soon after, those same politics had demoted him from detective back to patrolman.
Martinez heard the sirens approaching in the distance, but paid no attention. Could this poor soul really be John Burke? He realized the man had one eye open and was gazing up at him. The other appeared to be swollen shut. “Just lay still,” Martinez said. “An ambulance is on the way.”
The man tried to speak, failed, licked his lips, and tried again. “Don’t…don’t need…ambulance.”
Martinez stifled a smile. Wasn’t that always the case? The ones who needed the ambulance never wanted it, and the ones who didn’t thought they were dying. “You may not think so, but from my vantage point you are in serious need of some medical attention.” He looked up to see a police car pull to the curb. The ambulance arrived right behind it. Both had emergency lights flashing, but their sirens had quieted.
A young patrol officer sauntered over as the medics hurried to get their gear. “What you got, Martinez?”
Martinez gave the newcomer a quick glance. Brad Hastings was a good cop, if a bit cocky. “Creepers beat this guy unconscious. Took off when they saw me.”
“Can’t say I blame them. I want to take off when I see you.” Hastings laughed at his own joke before looking down at the man on the ground. “Man, what a mess. Dude should have known better than to take a solo stroll through the park. Got what he deserved, I’d say.”