We don't know. And not knowing is going to get us killed.
Dad switches the radio over to Jack's line at one point. Calls him. No answer. Jack only calls when he pleases, it seems. No help there.
"Who is he?" I ask.
"I have no idea," says Dad. "But...."
"Yeah?"
"His voice is familiar."
"Like you know him?"
Dad shakes his head. Slowly. "Not sure. Maybe. Maybe I've just heard his voice in passing. It's like...." He purses his lips, looking for words. "I think of your mother sometimes."
Those words shake me. Not just because they make almost no sense in the circumstance, but because Dad never talks about Mom. I catch him occasionally – usually on their anniversary – looking at a picture of her. Holding something that could only have belonged to her. But he puts it away as soon as he catches me looking. I have a few memories of her, but that's it. She's a faded ghost, a thing I recall as real, but a reality with few details.
"Jack's like her, sorta," he says.
"What do you mean?"
"Like... like I knew him once, a long time ago. But the memory's almost gone. So now he's talking again I can't quite recognize it."
I look over at Dad. His eyes are shining. We pass under streetlights, and as each one crosses the windows his eyes glisten a bit more.
"I wonder sometimes if I'd recognize your mother if she showed up. If she'd recognize me."
Then he blinks. The tears disappear, like they never were.
He points. "We're here."
14
NOW THAT WE'RE HERE, I recognize the place as well. I've been to the pier a ton of times with friends. There are some kitschy little shops, a small amusement park. I've never been to the fish market, but I've seen it off to the side of the pier – a big, swarming open-air market full of vendors hawking their wares and bickering over prices so loudly that the hum of it all can be heard from the pier.
The market backs up to a huge pile of volcanic rocks spewed up a million years ago by some eruption before being melted together into a single mass by the same explosion. The rock mass is a good fifty or sixty feet high, stretching into a steep rock face at the back, and pushing to the tideline in the front. On the top it's an irregular table, dangerous and slick at all times. But the rocks are a popular attraction for beachcombers who look for shells along the sides, and for teens who get into trouble climbing the dangerously slick rocks at all hours.
At high tide the waves spew into caves at the water line then shoot in high pressure bursts through holes at the top of the rock pile. A briny version of Old Faithful.
The market is closed now, but you can still walk through. The shops are all stalls, huge boxes now covered with boards and gates in complex systems that look both jury-rigged and ingenious, like they were designed by mad scientists with tinker toys.
Dad and I walk between the kiosks and stalls. Some have canvas awnings that flap in the sea breeze. The sound is dark, almost maniacal. The crack of ghostly whips on the backs of souls gone to forever dooms. Snap, snap.
The wind chills me faster than it should. I realize I'm shivering. Teeth clicking together in time with the snap of the awnings, the whip of the nylon ropes that hold them loosely to their moorings.
Liam's dead.
I'm wanted for a murder.
Liam's dead.
Someone's trying to kill us.
Liam's dead Liam's dead LIAM'S DEAD!
"Honey, you okay?"
I realize we've stopped moving. I'm holding myself, and a moment later Dad's holding me, too. Crushing me to his chest so hard I can feel the Velcro straps on the bulletproof vest he wears below his shirt.
I don't know how long we stand there. Everything disappears. The breeze, the snap-crack of awnings and rope, even the perma-stink of fish. There's just me and my dad – my daddy. My heart beats with his, and all I have is his calm to keep me safe.
I pull away. Wipe my eyes. Dry my cheeks with my sleeves.
And realize that I'm staring at something important.
"Dad," I say. "We're here." He turns to see what I'm pointing at: the stall that says "Red rockS" across a wooden sign hanging over its front. I wonder who made the decision to have the capitalization all screwed up. The fact that I even think about that makes me want to slap myself. Not only is it the least important thing possible under the circumstances, but it's exactly the kind of thing Dad would call out.
I'm turning into my dad. Perfect.
Will Liam love me when I start to go bald?
Silly, Liam's DEAD!
My thoughts bounce around, tumbling, each one an electrical charge that jolts me into immobility. I just stand there and watch as Dad moves around the stall, examining it. It's a large one, probably forty feet on a side. According to the words ("lObsTER, SHRimP, AhI") plastered all over the sides, this looks like one of the more high-end parts of the market. Not somewhere you go if you're hosting a basic backyard BBQ or a frat party. More the type of place that the rich folk who live in the hills above the beach send "their people" to in order to keep the fridges stocked with expensive health food.
The stall is completely shuttered: heavy plywood sheets lowered over what would be the window spaces where people could lean in and order. Dad looks around until he finds the entrance: a door that looks like it's made of the same stuff as the shutters, bolted with a pair of heavy Master locks.
Dad takes his collapsible baton off his belt. Snaps it open with a flick of his wrist. Twenty-six inches of dark metal seem to materialize in his hand.
It takes me a heartbeat to realize what he's going to do. Another to convince myself he has it in him to do it.
"Dad, stop!"
He doesn't. He swings the baton. It hits with a curious sound, half metallic tink and half dull thok as it connects with one of the Master locks, along with the door it holds shut.
The lock doesn't show any sign of the impact. He hits it again. Again. Again. Each contact seems to jar my reality. This is my dad, the good guy, the cop. And he's breaking into somewhere in the dead of night, after basically kidnapping a guy and then stealing someone else's car.
When did my world end? When did this new one take its place?
The lock never gives. But the lock is threaded through the eye of a hasp that holds the door shut. And after repeated pounding the frame of the door falls to splinters and there's nothing for the hasp to hold onto, so the whole mechanism – Master lock, hasp, and a bunch of tiny screws – just rattle out onto the sidewalk.
Dad repeats the process on the second lock. Then retracts his baton, clips it back to his belt, and pulls out a flashlight and moves through the now-open door to Red Rocks. I follow him.
Because what else can I do?
15
"WHAT ARE WE LOOKING for?" I ask.
Dad shakes his head. "I don't know. We've been through all of it. Nothing looks important. You see anything?"
I shake my head.
The inside of the stall – big enough it almost qualifies as a full-blown store – is mostly empty. There are long troughs that stink to high heaven and which I guess get filled with ice and fish each morning, then emptied out at night. There are a few small freezers humming in one corner – mostly empty, with nothing interesting in them. A pair of cash registers bolted to tables at opposite sides of the space. Work tables with knives and other kitchen tools stowed in them, but nothing looks interesting, let alone illegal.
Dad even shined his light down each of the big drains in the center of the aisles between the ice troughs. Nothing. Just dark and fish smell. Other than the festively-painted interior – cartoonish drawings of local sights and celebrities – this is about as boring a place as any I've been in.
Dad pulls out his radio. "Jack? Jack, we're here and we haven't found anything. You want this stupid game to keep going, you gotta throw us a bone."
The radio hisses for an instant, then is silent. No one is there. Or if anyone is there, then he
doesn't feel like talking.
Dad kicks one of the tables. It scoots a good foot across the floor, the cutlery inside rattling as it makes the leap. I cringe at the sudden noise. At the sudden violence. I don't think I've ever seen Dad lose his cool, but I can tell from his face – the tight lines of his mouth, the whiteness of his cheeks – that he's on the edge of losing it in a big way.
I look away from him.
Then look back just as he's winding up for another kick.
"Dad," I say.
He kicks the table again. Harder. One of its drawers opens and half a dozen sharp knives spill out.
"Dad!"
He spins. "What?" he shouts. Then seems to realize how close he is to a complete loss of control. He shakes himself. Closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them they seem focused again. Not calm, exactly, but more in control. "What, Mel?"
I point. "We're in the wrong place," I say.
The ceilings. The walls. Covered with caricatures and cartoon pictures of local landmarks. And there, sandwiched between a muscle-bound bodybuilder and a weirdly distorted view of the Chinese Theater... a large, irregular shadow. The familiar outline of volcanic rocks that this very fish market has neatly integrated into its architecture.
And over the picture: "Red Rocks."
The same name as the drug. The same name on the card.
No coincidence. There are no coincidences. Not tonight.
We leave the stall. I stop to close the door, which I know is ridiculous under the circumstances. But it seems wrong to leave the place open. We broke into it, and I feel like we have to close it. Even though I can't fix it, even though what we've done will probably frighten and anger the owners tomorrow.
Maybe we can explain. When all this is over, maybe we can come back.
We walk through the market. Pushing on with purpose – even more so than when we were looking for the stall in the first place. I suddenly feel like I'm walking arm in arm with fate. A sense that this is happening like this because it has to.
We look around the base of the rocks. Going as far as we can until the half-melted rocks disappear into a cliff face on one side, into pounding surf on the other.
Nothing. Just the smell of rotting sea life, the occasional crab that scuttles from one crack in the rock to another.
Neither of us asks what to do next. We just know.
We begin to climb.
PART FOUR:
INTO THE DEPTHS
June 30
PD Property Receipt – Evidence
Case # IA15-6-3086
Rec'd: 6/29
Investigating Unit: IA/Homicide
Journal
Day FIFTEEN
I NEVER THOUGHT THAT something that happened to someone else would affect me.
I never want to leave the house. Dad still hasn't been cleared by the inquiry, so until he does he's here. And I feel like as long as I'm with him, watching him the way he sometimes watches me, I can keep him safe.
Please, God, keep him safe.
I can't lose another parent.
1
THE ROCKS BITE MY HANDS. So rough in places, so sharp in others, that I figure I must be leaving a trail of bloody palm prints behind as I climb. I actually look down to see how much blood I'm leaving on the rocks.
Nothing. The climb is painful, but it's not killing me. Yet.
Dad climbs above me. Blazing a path. I follow him. Using his handholds, his footholds. He reaches back from time to time to help me past a tricky spot.
The mountain of rocks isn't particularly steep, but it can be dangerous. Falling down the sharp and craggy pile of rocks will mean deep cuts, definite broken bones. Maybe worse. And doing this at night is a crash course in reckless stupidity.
We have no choice.
Dad reaches down to help me up the last little bit. Then we're on top.
The holes where the geysers erupt are dry – high tide hasn't come in. Not completely, at least. But as I look, one of them whistles, a low, moaning sound like a grieving ghost has been buried below the rocks. I look at Dad, surprised.
"Tide," he says. "It pushes into the rocks, forces the air out through the holes. Some of the locals call this the Ocean's Tomb."
"Great." As if it wasn't creepy enough.
We spread out. Looking for a needle in a needle stack.
On the top, the rocks have settled into something of a plateau. More or less even, though the rocks that make up its mass are separated from one another by as much as a foot of empty space. Within that foot there is only darkness. Black crevasses of nothing that could drop down an inch, a foot, a yard. More than enough to break an ankle. To get caught.
I don't want to end up as a fixture on the Ocean's Tomb.
The foghorn wail of the rocks follows me as I pick my way forward, moving toward the front of the rocks as Dad moves toward the back. I look at my feet constantly, focusing on each footstep, trying to look at the rocks around as well but failing miserably.
There's nothing here. Just dangerous rock and the even more dangerous absence of rock.
I pick back and forth, up and down.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
I finally go back to the center. Dad's there, looking as frustrated as I feel. It seems like we've been here for hours, like the rocks have robbed us of more time than was fair. Slowing every footstep, keeping us from our goal.
"What now?"
"We've looked everywhere," Dad says.
At that moment, the ghost screams louder than ever. A blast so loud that I pitch forward, scream.
And I know: there's one place we haven't gone.
I turn around.
Toward the dark mouth of the tomb.
2
THERE ARE THREE HOLES on top of the huge rock pile. Three major ones, that is. Two that jet water as high as fifty feet in the air, a third that fountains up to waist height. I passed all three in my crisscrossing examination of the mountaintop.
The two that jet water are small: not even big enough for a child.
The third one? Much bigger. Big enough to climb down into.
Dad follows me, and as soon as I reach the lip of the thing, he seems to know what I plan.
"No, baby. No way."
"We have to." And we do. Again I'm held fast by that strange sense of fate.
All this has happened before...
And suddenly I see that Dad knows it, too. This has to happen.
... and it will all happen again.
He holds my arm. "Let me go, at least."
I look at him. At the hole. Maybe he can fit. But maybe not. It'd be a tight squeeze, to say the least. And what if he got caught?
The tomb whistles again. Even louder. The tide is coming in. Closing in. Anyone caught in the shaft, in any hole below when it fully arrives will be slammed to pieces.
I start climbing down. I don't argue with him, I just move. Movement is the only answer to some arguments – words aren't enough to make a point, not enough to show rightness. Sometimes you can't tell a person, you have to just do the right thing and hope they get it.
I think Dad's going to stop me. He reaches out. Reaches to grab me... but he's just helping me down. Knowing this has to be done.
Before I let go of him, he hands me a small flashlight. I stick it in my mouth.
I climb down. The ghost whistle surrounds me as I descend into the tomb.
Climbing down is hard at first, but gets easier. I'm glad for a moment, until I realize that the reason it's easier is that the hole is closing in on me. The chimney that had seemed more than wide enough to hold me is suddenly a tight squeeze. Pressing against my back, my hips. I have to shove my way down a few times, kicking my feet to force myself deeper.
The sound of surf crashing suddenly rises up to meet me. With it, the smell of sea life that had been brought into whatever caves lay below, there to die and rot unknown and unmourned.
I think of the kid in my dream. L
aid out in the middle of the alley. Did someone mourn the death of that one person, the passing of that one life?
And suddenly I know who Jack is.
I keep moving. Try not to think of that, try not to think of what kind of lesson we are here to learn.
The smell of rot grows, greater and greater until it gags me.
Suddenly my feet dangle. No purchase. I kick up, but lose my handholds at the same moment. I fall with a scream, expecting to tumble forever, to break my neck in the hard rock below.
Instead I only drop a few feet. Fall on my butt on sand and water. My teeth bounce painfully against the metal of the flashlight, then it bounces away with a splash.
Dad shouts down to me. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine!" I regret it instantly, as my open mouth allows more of the dank, rank smell into my body. I cover my mouth and nose with my sleeve.
I look around for the flashlight, finding it quickly since it's the only source of light down here. It had bounced into the water, but must be at least partially water resistant since it's still working. But who knows how long that will last? I have to work fast.
I look around.
I have fallen through the ceiling of a cave at the base of the Ocean's Tomb. The cave is only about four and a half feet tall, which means I can't even stand up. That's good news, since it means I can reach the hole I came through, can hopefully get out again.
The first thing I see is the water spilling in at the far end of the cave. A long, narrow slit where the surf pounds in.
When I landed, the surf was only at ankle height. Now it's at my shins. The tide's coming fast. I don't have much time.
I look around. Hoping without much hope that I might see something.
One side of the cave: empty. Not even the graffiti or beer cans you might expect in a place like this. Apparently it's too dangerous for even the most daring teens.
I swing the light around.
The Ridealong Page 9