Yesterday's Gone: Seasons 1-6 Complete Saga

by Sean Platt

  “This seat taken?” Trevor pointed to the empty spot beside Luca.

  Luca was confused, both by Trevor’s question, and that the cool kid was asking to sit beside him. He shook his head, “Um, no.”

  “Cool,” Trevor said, dropping down beside Luca and landing on the empty seat. “So, forgot your shorts, eh?”

  “Yeah,” Luca said, the lie back to swelling in his throat.

  “Bullshit,” Trevor said.

  Luca was stunned. “Huh?”

  “I said bullshit, you didn’t ‘forget’ your shorts. I know why you’re sitting here.”

  Luca gulped, not sure where this conversation was going, nor whose side Trevor was on. Luca had seen him hang around with Johnny Thomas, but Trevor was one of those kids who hung around everyone. Luca didn’t know if Trevor was one of the usual jerks and bullies that Johnny hung out with. The only kids Luca knew for sure were in that group were Gus and Kiyor, but it was always possible that Johnny had found a new recruit.

  Trevor pointed at the field, and straight at Johnny Thomas. Johnny wasn’t looking in their direction, but Luca was terrified that the bully would turn and see them, then think Luca was talking about him.

  “Don’t point,” Luca said, almost desperately. “He’ll see you.”

  Trevor laughed. “Let him, I don’t give a shit what he thinks. Fuck Johnny Thomas.”

  Luca was both shocked by Trevor’s cursing, and also relieved that he didn’t seem to like Johnny Thomas at all. He’d never seen Trevor have a problem with anyone.

  Trevor kept pointing at Johnny, and Luca was sure that at any moment he would turn around and see him. Fortunately, Johnny was in the center of the pitch with his eyes on Gus, who was on the opposite team and trying to get the ball to Johnny.

  Gus lost the ball out of bounds, and everyone on the field turned toward the sideline. Just then, Johnny looked up and saw Luca and Trevor sitting on the bench, Trevor’s finger still wagging toward him.

  Oh no!

  Trevor smiled, and waved at Johnny. Under his breath he said, “Hey, bitch. Yeah, we’re talking about you … about what a small dick you have, and how you jerk off with tweezers … to pictures of your sister. You fucking pussy.”

  Luca couldn’t help but laugh, even though he was certain that Johnny would know Luca was laughing at him.

  He looked down, trying to wipe the smile from his face, whispering, “Stop, you’re going to get me killed.”

  “He ain’t gonna do shit,” Trevor said.

  “Apparently, you don’t know Johnny Thomas,” Luca said, risking a look back at the field to see that the bully was no longer paying attention to them, Johnny’s eyes back on the action, following the ball.

  Thank God!

  Trevor looked at Luca. “Why you so afraid of him?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because he’s bigger than me, stronger than me, and totally crazy? Those all seem like good reasons. He also likes to pick on me, just because, and a lot more than most kids.”

  “He’s just a bully, man, you stand up to him once, maybe twice, he’ll turn and run away like a little bitch, trust me!”

  “Easy for you to say!”

  “What do you mean?”

  Luca shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to say the wrong thing and accidentally insult Trevor. “Well, you’re big and strong, and everybody likes you. You don’t have to deal with bullies.”

  Trevor laughed. “Well, yeah, I don’t have to deal with bullies now. But last year, when I lived in Chino, I didn’t fit in either. And some assholes decided they’d make my life hell.”

  Luca leaned forward, surprised that there was ever a time when Trevor didn’t fit in, especially if that time was just one year ago.

  “It wasn’t until my brother taught me to fight, and I stood up for myself, that things finally changed.”

  “I don’t have a brother,” Luca said. “Just a little sister.”

  “Well, what about your dad? Can’t he teach you?”

  “I don’t know,” Luca said, not bothering to explain that his dad did teach him a bit. “I don’t even know why I have to learn how to fight! Can’t people just get along? What happened to everyone leaving everyone else alone? I feel like if I start fighting, it’ll never end. Like I’ll always have to fight someone trying to mess with me.”

  Trevor shook his head, “No, no, no. It doesn’t work that way, not for people like me and you. It’s not like you’re in a gang and need to prove yourself, or playing a video game where you have to fight mini-boss after mini-boss until you get to the big, bad boss. You just stand up to a guy like Johnny Thomas once, or, like I said, twice, since some thick fucks don’t get the message first time around, and you clock that bitch right in his face and he’ll leave you alone for good.”

  “I don’t know,” Luca said, looking back at the field, watching as Johnny ran fast and knocked into Hector Esposito hard, then yanked the ball from his hands. As Hector fell to the dirt, Johnny laughed too loud. Coach didn’t even blow the whistle.

  Trevor said, “You might not believe this, but most bullies are just secretly scared, little cowards. Usually they’re being bullied by someone themselves, and are looking for victims weaker than them so that they can take out their frustrations, and maybe feel a little stronger. If you stand up to them, then you’re taking their fuel away. If you’re not scared, then they’ll find someone who is.”

  Luca was impressed by how much Trevor seemed to know. He was so much smarter than Luca expected. While he certainly didn’t think Trevor would be dumb, he hadn’t expected him to sound like his dad, saying so many things that made so much such sense.

  “What you’re saying makes sense,” Luca said. “And even my dad said I should stand up to Johnny. But I don’t know … I get scared whenever I think about it.”

  Trevor looked Luca up and down, then smacked a hand on his back like they were longtime pals. “How would you like it if I taught you how to fight?”

  “Huh?”

  “Since you don’t have a brother, and your dad is probably old like mine and forgot what it was like to be a kid. Let me teach you.”

  “I don’t know,” Luca said, even as his mind trailed off imagining a few dreams coming true: Trevor training him, Luca beating Johnny up, him finally being left alone. Then Luca saw the nightmare that dared to ruin his dreams: him getting in over his head, overconfident and unprepared for a real, actual fight with Johnny. The kind that left him bloodied and scared, humiliated.

  “Or … ” Trevor said, laughing, “You can keep being Johnny’s personal punching bag. I doubt he’ll get bored, not if you just keep on standing there and taking it. Admit it, man, that’s got to be getting pretty old, right?”

  “Yeah,” Luca agreed. Daring to dream, he turned to Trevor. “So, how would you teach me? And when would we do it?”

  “Wanna meet after school, at Barker Park?”

  Barker Park was across the street from the school, a fairly large park with a nature trail and several bike paths. It was also on the way home for Luca, who rode his bike to school on Wednesdays because his sister stayed late and Luca didn’t like waiting around for Mom to come pick them both up.

  “I wouldn’t have long. I told my mom I was going to run by the comic book shop, and I’d be home by 4:30. Would 20 minutes be enough?”

  “Oh yeah, I could teach you some basics in 20 minutes, no problem. Then we can meet again another day, if you want. And I can teach you some more.”

  “Thank you,” Luca said, then risked asking something he thought might anger Trevor. “Why are you doing this? I mean, why help me?”

  “I don’t know, maybe I see a little of myself from last year in you, and want to help. But also, I’d just love to see the surprised look on that fucker’s face when you punch him in the nads. That, my friend, will be priceless!”

  Luca laughed, feeling an oddly confident swell in his spirits.

  Maybe he would stand up to Johnny Thomas after all; he could end
the bullying, impress his new friend, and make his father proud.

  Twenty-Seven

  Michael Blackmore

  Mike sat outside of Mary Olson’s house, watching for any sign of the killer … or anybody.

  It was morning, and the house, along with the tree-lined street in the gated community, was quiet.

  From his research, Mike knew Mary was a greeting card designer and worked from home. She had a 13-year-old daughter named Paola, probably in school. Mary was separated from a man named Ryan Olson, declared missing in 2012. Mike wondered if the man he was looking for might be somehow responsible for Ryan’s “disappearance.” Maybe she shacked up with the killer after he took care of her ex.

  Mike had long ago stopped being surprised by murderers conniving their way into the lives of normal women, even having long-term relationships and starting families. He wondered how broken someone had to be if they were willing to let such evil into their lives, because there was no way at least a part of you wouldn’t know. Human instincts were too strong, even if most people chose to ignore them. It could be that the woman had no idea her new man was a cold-blooded killer until after she’d fallen for him, but at any rate, she probably would’ve suspected that something was up.

  While movies and the media liked to play up how serial killers managed to blend into families and neighborhoods, with the tired phrasing, “He was a quiet man, we never suspected anything,” that was rarely the case, at least in Mike’s ample experience. When it came to serial killers, the only people who didn’t know something was wrong were those who didn’t really know the murderer. Anyone who spent any amount of time with a serial killer usually knew something was off with them. They might not suspect the person’s pure evil, but if they were paying any attention they had to know something was wrong.

  So, it confused Mike that decent people could allow themselves to ignore those warning bells so often, and made him wonder if it was a different sort of instinct, stronger than the first: an instinct to turn their eyes from the truth, to stay alive and maybe safe, thinking that one monster might help them to keep others away. Mike also wondered if Mary was just such a woman.

  Of course, it was possible that Mary Olson was ignorant of this particular monster, or that she didn’t know the killer at all, and he was following a dead end. The only way to know for sure was to get out of his car and knock on her door. He reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed a bouquet of roses and lilies he bought from the grocery store for the ruse he planned to use if any neighbors happened to see him.

  Mike approached Mary’s house, eyes on her windows as he mentally prepared himself to drop the flowers and reach into his jacket for his gun if necessary.

  He looked up and down the street and saw an older woman two doors down, pretending to check her mailbox. Mike knew she was scoping him out. He smiled and waved, she quickly looked away as if she hadn’t been watching.

  He continued up the stone path and knocked on Mary’s large front door. There were windows on either side, displaying the spacious interior. Mike could see clear to the back of the house and into the kitchen, but saw no sign of anyone home. The TV wasn’t on, and the house was silent.

  He rang the bell and continued to wait.

  Nothing.

  Mike decided to visit the old lady down the street to see what she knew.

  Before he reached her door, she appeared at her doorstep, “Yes?” she asked.

  From her expression and hand to hip, Mike could tell she was a suspicious type, who wouldn’t think twice about calling out bullshit if she got a whiff of it.

  “Hello, Ma’am,” he said waving his hand and smiling, “I’ve got a flower delivery for Mary Olson, but she doesn’t seem to be there. Do you know what time she’s usually home? I hate to leave them on the doorstep because these lilies are thirsty, and they’ll die if it gets too hot; there doesn’t seem to be any decent shade out front. I could leave them in back, but she might not see them and the customer didn’t leave us with a phone number.”

  The woman relaxed. “No. I think she works at home, so if she’s not answering, she might be out running errands or something.”

  “OK,” Mike said, looking up the street, and coming up with a lie. “One of the neighbors said she lives with her daughter and that sometimes there’s another guy there, do you know when any of them come home? I don’t need to give them to Mary, just someone at the house.”

  The woman’s brow furrowed, “I don’t think anybody else lives there. It’s just her and her girl.”

  “Really?” Mike said, trying not to oversell his ploy. “Neighbor said he saw a skinny guy with longish, dark hair, early 30s. Really good-looking, but a bit crude?”

  “Oh,” the woman said, her face turning sour, “him? No, he doesn’t live there. He’s a friend of hers, from out of town. Rudest man I’ve ever met.”

  He laughed, pegging the woman as a born gossip. “Really? What happened?”

  “Mary’s daughter, Paola, she came to my house one day asking to borrow a cupcake pan so she could make something as a surprise for her mom. So I lent it to her, no problem. But a week or so went by, and she didn’t return it. Now, normally, I wouldn’t care, I have plenty of pans and don’t mind lending stuff to neighbors, but this was my favorite pan, cooked stuff just right, nice and brown, never burnt, and nothing ever sticks. I really should’ve gotten more, since now you can’t find them. So, anyway, I went over to Mary’s to ask for my pan back, but Mary and Paola weren’t home. Instead, this … man … answered the door, and said Mary wasn’t home, but I could come back later. He seemed nice at first, smiling, and he was even wearing Mary’s apron. I told him I just wanted to get my pan back, because I had to bake something for a church function that night. I described the pan to him, and he said he was in the middle of using it, but if I could come back in an hour he’d give it back. Problem was, I didn’t really want to wait an hour, so I told him, and he got really rude with me. He asked me what was up my … well, I don’t want to repeat what he said, but let’s just say he had a sailor’s mouth. Just awful. Nobody should talk like that! I left, without my pan, and at that point I didn’t even want it, not after he touched it.”

  Mike laughed, playing along. “Wow.”

  “So, anyway, Mary came over a few days later and brought me my pan. I told her how rude her gentleman guest had been to. She apologized, then I told her that I was shocked, both that she would associate with such a foul human being, and that she’d allow her daughter anywhere near him. He’s disgusting. But she said, ‘Oh, that’s just Boricio, he’s really sweet once you get to know him. He’s just a bit eccentric.’”

  “Boricio?” Mike asked, wondering if this was his killer’s name. “What kinda name is that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’d never heard it before, but it sounds dago, and the way he talked made me think of a redneck Italian.”

  Mike ignored the woman’s blatant racism. “Wow, sounds like a class act. So, he doesn’t live there? After that story, I’d hate to run into the guy.”

  “No, I forget where she said he’s from. I think New York, which would figure, with that mouth of his.”

  Mike laughed again, then looked back down at the flowers, “OK, well thanks for your help. I’ll maybe wait a few more minutes and see if she comes home. If she doesn’t, could I come back and leave the flowers with you? I’ve an awful lot of deliveries today and I’m not sure I can get back on this side of town before dark.”

  Mike gave the woman his most pleasant smile.

  “Certainly,” she said, smiling back.

  “OK, thank you.” Mike went back down her walkway holding the flowers.

  He approached a few more neighbors before returning to Mary’s with the same ruse. One of the neighbors, an older man named Winston, told Mike he thought Mary might be out of town. He’d seen her leave the morning before, or maybe the day before that, he wasn’t sure, and he’d not seen her Volvo in the driveway since.

>   Mike thanked the man then returned to his car and waited, hoping it wasn’t in vain.

  After 10 minutes, he couldn’t wait any longer. It would be too suspicious, hell it probably already was for a “flower delivery guy” to be waiting around rather than leaving. If he stayed much longer, his cover would be blown and someone might call the cops.

  Mike returned to Mary’s doorway, took a quick look around to make sure he was still unseen, then slipped to the side of the yard and into the back. His car’s windows were tinted dark enough that anyone looking from a distance wouldn’t notice he wasn’t still in it, which gave him some time to do what he had to.

  He went to the home’s rear, glad to see that her house backed up to a wooded area, and therefore he didn’t have to worry about neighbors behind her spotting him.

  He went to the rear sliding-glass door he had spotted when standing at the front, then looked up and down in search of alarm contacts. He saw none.

  Mike was also pleasantly surprised that there was nothing in place to secure the doors. He was two for two and feeling confident as he palmed the glass with both hands and pressed, then lifted the right door from its track and slid it open. Once inside, he pulled a cloth from inside his pocket and wiped his prints from the glass, then slid the door back into the groove to erase any sign of his entrance. If he could find what he was looking for — something that might lead him to Boricio — he wouldn’t have to discuss anything with Mary. The fewer people he spoke with, the thinner his trail to Boricio’s inevitable murder.

  Mike found what he was looking for sooner than expected, in Mary’s laptop.

  Just as her house wasn’t guarded by alarm, her computer wasn’t password protected. He was three for three. Mike did a search for the name “Boricio” and came up with nothing. He saw that Mary didn’t use her computer’s mail program, which meant her e-mail was likely browser based. Whether he could check that or not depended on whether Mary’s browser was still signed in to her e-mail or if she stored her password on her computer unencrypted. Given the sorry state of security in her house, it was quite likely.