Blood's a rover

127

(Los Angeles, 4/17/72)

“Don’t give me a surname. There’s one I’m considering.”

“Dare I guess?”

“Let’s just say it honors the past several years, as well as runs from them.”

The backyard was Ella’s gator farm. Clouds brewed and promised rain. Joan rounded the stuffed creatures up.

Karen said, “Literary executor. What do you think? All our files, diaries, memoranda. Everything we’ve put together.”

Joan looked up at the fallback. “He’d be good. He’s quite the hoarder.”

“What would he do with it?”

“He’d read through it and look for answers. He’d see things that no one else has seen and impose his own logic on it. If he grows up, he’ll understand what it all means.”

The girls bombed around the house. Joan peered through windows. Dina watched TV cartoons. Ella snuck up, pulled the plug and laughed.

Karen said, “I miss Dwight.”

Joan said, “Something’s changing with my body.”

The rain kept up. A strong wind came with it. Joan anchored her paper stacks with throwdown guns and Dwight’s knickknacks. She wanted the wind. The boy loved her hair aswirl.

Mixed blessing. The wind gave them the backdrop. Gusts snuffed the candle flames.

He was there with her and off somewhere. He kept his eyes open. She kissed them shut and held them shut and caressed a neck vein pulsing. He made sounds she’d never heard before. He had a kid-sound repertoire. The sounds pushed his tears back. He burrowed into her hair, so she wouldn’t see.

It took a while. He’d drift someplace and touch her from a distance. He’d spend time away from her and roll back. He saw what he saw or thought what he thought and come back to her. He put a knee between her legs and kissed her underarms. He forced the fit. She rolled and kneeled over him. His eyes looked crazy. She covered them. He kissed her palms and held her fingers in his mouth.

“Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“I can’t.”

“Have you been thinking about the island?”

“Yes, in part.”

“I heard that Esteban Sanchez had been killed.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Were you complicit?”

“Yes.”

“Trust the purity of your intent. There will always be casualties, and there will always be fewer of them if you act boldly.”

“There’s something else.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Were you complicit?”

“Yes.”

“Did you act boldly?”

“Yes.”

“Did you realize that you had to act, because no one else would?”

“Yes.”

“Are you comforted by that now?”

“No.”

“Your options were do everything or do nothing. You made the correct choice.”

“How will I know when I’ve done the wrong thing?”

“When the result is a catastrophe that will in no way subside.”

“What do I do then?”

“Reach for a deeper resolve and try to be stronger and smarter next time.”

“There’s something kicking around in my head now.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I can’t.”

“All right.”

“Tell me why you redacted my file.”

“I’m not going to.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again. I’ll always be looking for something that may or may not be there.”

“You’ve always been that way.”

“Is there a way to run away from all this?”

“Not for you or me. We might run, but we’ll always run back.”

(Los Angeles, 4/18/72-4/30/72)

He worked at pad #3. He closed the curtains, shut the drapes and ran the air conditioning. He shut off all the clocks. He unplugged the phone. He turned day to night and night to day.

It was a controlled burning. He emptied out his file trove at the Vivian. He boxed up all his file shit downtown. He had the liquid-herb formula and the syringe. He had written formulas from his herb guys. Burn your mother’s file, burn Wayne’s file, burn your case file. Build your paper bombs and gauge the results.

He stole Dwight Holly’s bolt-tappers. Pre-oiled tungsten cut through anything. He had his plane tix, his fake facial hair, his bogus ID. He had everything. He had to act, because no one else would.

He emptied out the boxes. The paper piles ran ten feet high. He dumped out his case file last. The murder occurred a heartbeat away. He should have known then. He figured it out late. He acted, because no one else would.

He saved Joan’s mug shots. He nailed them to the back basement wall. He clamped his Saint Christopher medal to the nailhead.

The herb guys gave him crib sheets. He brewed liquids and filled eye-droppers. He squeezed droplets on blotter paper. He cross-checked molecular charts. He refined the burn words/retain paper effect.

File paper stripped. File paper blackened, curdled, crisped. Smell and haze-but no smoke outright.

He brewed six full bottles and baffle-wrapped them. He placed three Windex empties in his knapsack. He bought forty mesh laundry bags. He jammed them all paper-full.

Paper balls, paper pods, paper cylinders. Hold for the spritz.

He filled Windex bottle #1. He sprayed his Paper Parthenon life’s work. It curdled, bubbled, singed, reduced and vaporized text. It sent up a stink. It produced eye irritation. The paper nests vibrated. The little mesh nets snapped. Wordless paper scraps whirled.

Crutch walked to the back wall. Joan’s mug shots were dust-coated. He wiped them off. He placed the Saint Chris around his neck.

I will avenge you.

I will honor the great gift of you.

You faltered and gave me your flag for safekeeping. I will carry it for you now.