Time Bomb

10

After he left I listened to the white cassette. The contents were nothing that would have intrigued a grade-schooler: synthesized harp music that sounded as if it had been recorded underwater and Dobbs talking in the syrupy-sweet, patronizing tone people who don’t really like kids put on when they talk to them.

The gist of the message was Play Ostrich- clean your brain, blot out reality in order to make it go away. Pop psych in all its superficial glory; Freud would have turned over in his grave. B. F. Skinner wouldn’t have pushed the reward button.

I turned off the tape recorder, ejected the cassette, and lobbed a two-pointer into the nearest wastebasket, wondering how much Dobbs charged per tape. How many copies he’d peddled to the state, via Massengil’s expense account.

The phone rang. I took it in the kitchen.

“Hi, Alex, it’s me.”

A voice that had once soothed me, then cut me. First time I’d heard it in months.

“Hello, Robin.”

She said, “I’m working late, waiting for some lacquer to dry. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine. How about yourself?”

Let’s hear it for sparkling repartee.

She said, “I’m fine too.”

“Burning the midnight oil?”

“The Irish Spinners just got into town for a concert at McCabes. The airline damaged a bunch of their instruments and I’m doing the repairs.”

“Ouch,” I said, imagining my old Martin guitar in splinters. “Emergency surgery.”

“I feel like a surgeon. The poor guys were devastated and they’ve been hanging around the shop, looking over my shoulder. I finally shooed them away. So now they stay outside in the parking lot, pacing and wringing their hands like relatives waiting for a prognosis.”

“How is the prognosis?”

“Nothing a little hot glue and artful splicing shouldn’t be able to fix. How about you? What’ve you been up to?”

“Repair work also.” I told her about the sniping, my sessions with the children.

“Oh, that. Alex, those poor little kids. How are they doing?”

“Surprisingly well.”

“Not surprising. They’re in the best of hands. But wasn’t there another psychologist, talking about it on TV?”

“He’s limited himself to talk. Which is all for the best.”

“He didn’t impress me either. Too glib. Lucky for the kids they got you.”

“Actually,” I said, “the main reason they’re coping relatively well is they’ve grown up with violence, seen lots of hatred.”

“How sad… Well, I think it’s great you’re getting involved with them- using your talents.”

Silence.

“Alex, I still think about you a lot.”

“I think about you too.” As little as possible.

“I… I was wondering- do you think it’s reached a point where we could get together sometime, to talk? As friends?”

“I don’t know.”

“I realize I’m coming at you out of left field with this. It’s just that I was thinking about how rare friendship is- between men and women. Part of what we had was friendship. Best friendship. Why do we have to lose that? Why can’t that part of it be preserved?”

“Makes sense. Intellectually.”

“But not emotionally?”

“I don’t know.”

More silence.

“Alex, I won’t keep you. Just take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too,” I said. Then: “Stay in touch.”

“You mean that?”

“Sure,” I said, not knowing what I meant.

She wished the kids at Hale well, and hung up.

I stayed up and watched bad movies until sleep overtook me, sometime after midnight.

The Santa Ana winds arrived in the darkness. I awoke on the sofa and heard them shrieking through the glen, sucking the moisture out of the night. My eyes felt gritty, and my clothes were twisted around me. Not bothering to remove them, I made it to the bedroom, crawled under the covers, and collapsed.

Sunrise brought a glorious Thursday morning, skies scoured and buffed a perfect Delft blue, trees and shrubs varnished a luminous Christmas green. But the view through the French doors had the jarring, cold perfection of a computer-fabricated Old Master. I felt sluggish, drugged by dream residue. Confusing hyperactive images had embedded themselves in my subconscious like fishhooks. Too much pain to tug them loose; time to play ostrich.

I dragged myself into the shower. As I was toweling off, Milo called.

“Ran the plates on the Honda. The car is an ’83, registered to a New Frontiers Technology, Limited. Post office box in Westwood. Ring any bells?”

“New Frontiers,” I said. “No. Sounds like some kind of high-tech outfit- which would make sense if the driver was one of the locals.”

“Whatever. Meanwhile, thought you might want to know I’ve got an appointment this Saturday with Mrs. Esme Ferguson. Her residence, at two. Tea and sympathy, pinkies extended.”

“I thought Frisk was doing all the interviewing.”

“He has first dibs but he never called her. He’s just about ready to close the case. Apparently, nothing political’s come up on Burden in anyone’s files- no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. No funny phone calls that can be traced from her home to anywhere else, no job at Massengil’s or Latch’s. So they’re considering it a nut job and are ready to file it as a solve. Isn’t it nice when things go smoothly?”

Back at Hale by ten. Several dozen children were out on the yard for morning recess, running, climbing, hiding, seeking. The asphalt sparkled like granite under an unencumbered sun.

I finished my group sessions by noon, reserving the rest of the day for individual evaluations of the children I’d tagged as high-risk. After a couple more hours of evaluation, I decided five of them would be okay; the rest could use one-on-one treatment.

After spending another couple of hours doing play therapy, supportive counseling, and relaxation training, I checked in Linda’s office. Carla was going through a pile of forms. Her punk-do was wrapped in a blue bandana and she looked around twelve years old.

“Dr. Overstreet’s downtown,” she said. “At a meeting.”

“Poor Dr. Overstreet.”

Her smile seemed less carefree than usual.

“Any of Dr. Dobbs’s people been by?” I said.

“No, but someone else has.” She put her finger in her mouth and made a gag-me gesture.

“Who?”

She told me.

“Where?”

“Probably one of the classrooms- your guess is as good as mine.”

I didn’t have to guess. I heard the music as I walked down the hall. Awkward attempts at blues riffs tooted on a harmonica with warped reeds.

I pushed open the classroom door and found a dozen or so fifth-graders looking quieter than I’d ever seen them.

Gordon Latch was sitting on the desk, legs folded yogi-style, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his wrists. A chromatic mouth organ was in one hand; the other caressed his gray-brown mop of hair. Behind him stood Bud Ahlward, wearing a charcoal-colored sack suit, back to the chalkboard, arms across his bulky chest, expressionless.

He was the first to notice me. Then Latch turned, smiled, and said, “Dr. Delaware! Come on in and join the party.”

The teacher was sitting at the back of the room, pretending to grade papers. One of the younger ones, just out of training, quiet, with a tendency to be underassertive. She looked up at me and shrugged. The room had gone silent. The kids were staring at me.

Latch said, “Hey, guys,” put the harmonica to his lips, and blew a few bars of “Oh, Susanna.” Ahlward tapped one wing-tipped foot, concentrating. As if keeping rhythm required great effort. Latch closed his eyes and blew harder. Then he stopped, gave the kids a wide smile. A few of them squirmed.

I walked toward the desk.

Latch lowered the harmonica and said, “Bud and I thought it would be useful to drop by. Give these guys a chance to ask questions.” Half-wink, lowered voice: “Vis-à-vis our prior discussion.”

“I see.”

“Brought L.D. too,” he said, hefting the harmonica. Turning back to the kids, he gave a cheerleader flourish with the harmonica hand. “What’s L.D. stand for, guys?”

Rustling from the seats. Childish mumbles.

“Right,” said Latch. “Little Dylan.” Toot, inhale, toot. “Old L.D. here, had him since Berkeley- that’s a college up north, near San Francisco, guys. Any of you know where San Francisco is?”

Nothing.

Latch said, “They had a giant earthquake there a long time ago. Big fire too. They’ve got a great big Chinatown there and the Golden Gate Bridge. Any of you hear of the Golden Gate Bridge?”

No volunteers.

“Anyway, old L.D. here is my little trusted musical buddy. He helped me get through some long days- days with lots of homework. You know about homework, don’t you?”

A few nods.

Ahlward lifted one foot and inspected the bottom of his shoe.

Latch said, “So. Anything you guys want to hear?”

Silence.

Ahlward uncrossed his arms and let them dangle.

Latch said, “Nothing at all?”

A boy in the back said, “Bon Jovi. ‘Living on a Prayer.’ ”

Latch clicked his tongue a couple of times, tried a few notes on the harmonica, and moved it away from his lips, shaking his head. “Sorry, amigo, that’s not in my repertoire.”

I said, “Councilman, could I talk to you for a moment? Privately.”

“Privately, huh?” Mugging for the kids, he lowered his voice to a stage whisper: “Sounds pretty mysterious, huh?”

A few children responded with shaky smiles; most remained stolid. Up at the chalkboard, Ahlward had crossed his arms again and was alternating his gaze between the view out the window and a spot on the rear wall, over the heads of the children. Bored and watchful at the same time.

I cleared my throat.

Latch checked his wristwatch and slipped the harmonica into his shirt pocket. “Sure, Dr. Delaware, let’s talk.” Full wink. “Hang in there, guys.”

He got off the desk, flipped his jacket over one shoulder, and came my way. I held the door open for him and we stepped out into the hall. Ahlward followed us, silently, but remained in the doorway of the classroom. Latch gave him a short nod and the redheaded man closed the door, resumed the folded-arms, Secret Service stance, and looked up and down the corridor, a reflexive watchdog.

Latch pressed his back flush against the wall and bent one leg. The harmonica sagged in his pocket. The lenses of his welfare glasses were crystal-clear, the eyes behind them restless. “Good group of kids,” he said.

“Yes, they are.”

“They seem to be handling things pretty well.”

“That’s true too.”

“Though it seems to me,” he said, “that they’re a bit understimulated- not to know where San Francisco is, the Golden Gate Bridge. The system’s failing them, has a long way to go before it does right by them.”

I said nothing.

He said, “So. What’s on your mind, Alex?”

I said, “With all due respect to your intentions, Councilman, it would be best to let me know the next time you’re planning to drop in.”

He seemed puzzled. “Why’s that important to you?”

“Not me. Them. To keep things predictable.”

“How so?”

“They need consistency. Need to feel a stronger sense of control over their environment, not have any more surprises thrown at them.”

He lifted his glasses with one hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the other. I noticed that the skin behind the freckles was ruddy, tinged with bronze; since the sniping he’d taken some sun.

When the spectacles were back in place he said, “Maybe we got our signals crossed, Alex, but I thought this was exactly what you wanted. Exactly what you said you wanted that first time we met. Accurate information- firsthand information. Bypassing the red tape. Bud and I have been cleared by the cops in terms of informational flow, so I figured why not?”

“What I had in mind was something a little more organized,” I said.

He smiled. “Going through channels?”

“That’s not always a bad idea.”

“No, of course not. The thing is, Alex, this wasn’t really planned. Believe it or not, we public servants do get spontaneous once in a while.”

Grinning. He waited until I smiled back, then said, “What happened was, Bud and I were literally in the neighborhood. Driving down Sunset on our way from a meeting in the Palisades- keeping the developers in check. Give those boys a free rein and the whole coastline will be a strip mall inside of a month. It was a hellacious couple of hours, but we came out of it better than when we went in and I was feeling pretty good about my job- that’s not always the case. So when Bud mentioned that we were coming up on Ocean Heights, I said to myself, why not? It had been on my mind to get back here soon as the police cleared us but I’d been too caught up with backlog- dealing with the investigation set me back a couple of days. Things really piled up. But I felt badly about not keeping my word. So I told him to turn off, use the time we did have profitably.”

“I understand, Councilman-”

“Gordon.”

“I appreciate what you wanted to do, Gordon, but with all these kids have been through, it’s best to coordinate things.”

“Coordinate, huh?” His blue eyes stopped moving and got hard. “Why do I feel all of a sudden as if I’m back in school myself? Being called into the principal’s office?”

“That’s not what I intend-”

“Coordinate,” he said, looking away from me and giving a short, hard laugh that percussed in his chest and died before it got to his throat. “Go through channels. That’s exactly the kind of thing we tell taxpayers when they come up to the mike in Council chambers and ask us for something we don’t intend to give them.”

I said, “What exactly is your plan, Gordon?”

He turned back to me. “My plan? I just told you there was none.”

“Your intention, then, in terms of the kids.”

“My intention,” he said, “was to break the ice with a little help from L.D., then field their questions. Give them a chance to throw stuff at me- anything they want. Give them a chance to find out the system can work for them, once in a while. Give them the opportunity to learn from Bud what it feels like to be a hero. My intention was to listen to their feelings and share mine- what it felt like to be under fire. The fact that we’re all in this together- we’d better pull together or the planet’s in trouble. I was just about to get into that when you came in.”

Sidestepping the reproach, I said, “Were you planning to do that in every class?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“To do it thoroughly might take quite a bit of time. Several days. The media are bound to find out you’re here. Once they do, we run the risk of more commotion.”

“The media can be handled,” he said quickly. “My only goal is to protect the little guys.”

“From what?”

“Not what, Alex. Whom. The users. People who’d think nothing of exploiting them for personal gain.”

He emphasized the last three words and paused, shot a knowing look over at Ahlward, who remained stoic.

“The sad thing is,” he said, “with what they’ve experienced here- what they’ve seen of the political process- they run a heavy risk of growing up cynical. Uninvolved. Which doesn’t bode well for us as a society, does it? We’re talking stagnation, Alex. To the extent that that kind of thing takes over on a large scale, we’re really in trouble. So I guess what I want is for them to see that there can be another side to politics. That there’s no need to stagnate or give up.”

From erosion to stagnation. My second dose of political rhetoric in as many days.

I said, “Another side as opposed to the one represented by Assemblyman Massengil?”

He smiled. “I won’t kid you. My opinions on Assemblyman Massengil are public record. The man’s a dinosaur, part of an era that should be long-forgotten. And the fact that he’s involved has made me take a special look at this situation. This city’s changing- the entire state is. The world is. There’s a new age of transworld intimacy that won’t be stopped. We’re inexorably linked to Latin America, to the Pacific Rim. Cowboy days are gone, but Sam Massengil hasn’t the vision to conceive of that.” Pause. “Has he been causing any more problems for you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure? Don’t be shy about letting me know, Alex. I’ll ensure you’re not caught in the middle.”

“I appreciate that, Gordon.”

His flipped his jacket forward and slipped it on. Patted his hair. “So,” he said, smiling, “this must be fulfilling work.”

“It is.”

“I notice there’s this other psychologist doing a lot of speechifying to the media. Fellow with a beard.”

“Lance Dobbs. So far he’s limited his involvement to talk.”

“You mean he hasn’t actually been here?” Indignation, mock or otherwise.

“No, he hasn’t, Gordon. One of his assistants came by but I convinced Dr. Dobbs that too many cooks would spoil the broth and she hasn’t been back since.”

“I see,” he said. “That’s certainly true- too many cooks. True in lots of other regards.”

I didn’t respond.

He said, “So. You feel you have it worked out. With Dr. Dobbs.”

“So far so good.”

“Excellent. Good for you.” He paused, touched his harmonica pocket. “Well, good luck and more power to you.”

The old two-handed grip and a nod at Ahlward. The redheaded man moved away from the door and smoothed his lapels. From inside the classroom came shouts and laughter, the young teacher’s voice, tight with frustration, trying to be heard over the tumult.

Latch turned his back on me. The two of them began walking away.

I said, “Planning on coming back, Gordon?”

He stopped, and lowered his eyebrows, as if pondering a question of cosmic proportions. “You’ve given me food for thought, Alex. I really heard you. About doing it right. Coordinating. So let me bounce it around, check my calendar, and get back to you.”

I waited until the corridor was empty, then followed at a discreet distance, made it to the door, and watched them crossing the yard, ignoring the children playing there. They then left the grounds, got into a black Chrysler New Yorker, Ahlward driving, and rode away. No other vehicles pulled out behind them. No retinue of young scrubs, no sign of the media. So perhaps the in-the-neighborhood story was genuine. But I had trouble buying it. Latch’s eager response to my question about Massengil, his questions about Dobbs, convinced me his agenda had been other than altruistic.

And the timing was too cute, coming so soon after my summons to Massengil’s office. Not that yesterday’s visit had been public knowledge. But Latch had already displayed access to Massengil’s itinerary- the day of the sniping. Ready to do battle on camera.

Now the two of them were would-be heroes. A couple of sharks, vying for a tooth-hold in the underbelly of tragedy. I wondered how long it would go on.

Politics as usual, I supposed. It reminded me of why I’d dropped out of academic medicine.

I left the school and tried to put all thoughts of politics out of my mind long enough to get some dinner down. Driving quasi-randomly, I ended up on Santa Monica Boulevard and stopped at the first place I spotted that offered easy parking, a coffee shop near Twenty-fourth Street. Someone had begun holiday decorations- plastic poinsettia on each table; windows frosted and painted with mistletoe; spavined, bucktoothed reindeer; and a few baby-blue menorahs. The good cheer hadn’t spread to the food and I left most of my roast beef sandwich on the plate, paid, and left.

It was dark. I got into the Seville and pulled out of the lot. Traffic was too heavy for a left turn, so I headed west. Another car’s headlights filled my rearview mirror. I didn’t think much of it until a few blocks later, when I turned right again and the lights stayed with me.

I drove to Sunset.

Still the headlights. I could tell, because the left one flickered.

Narrowly spaced beams. Small car. Compact car. Too dark to determine the color or make.

I joined the eastbound flow on the boulevard. Each time I looked into the mirror, the headlights stared back at me like a pair of yellow, pupilless eyes.

I caught a red light at Bundy. The headlights edged up closer. A filling station was at the nearest corner, the pre-embargo type- expansive lot, full-serve pumps, pay phone.

I rolled forward. The headlights followed suit. When the amber light flashed for the north-south traffic, I rolled for two seconds, then made a sharp turn up the driveway, kept going until I reached the pay phone.

The car with the flickering headlight started up and drove across the intersection. I followed it, taking in as many details as I could. Brown Toyota. Two people in front. Female passenger, I thought. I couldn’t see the driver. The passenger’s head turned, facing the driver. Talking to each other. Not even a glance in my direction.

I scolded myself for being paranoid, got back on Sunset, and drove home. The operator at my service gave me an earful of messages- one from Milo, the rest all business. I put in return calls, reaching one late-working attorney, a bunch of answering machines, and the desk sergeant at Robbery-Homicide, who told me Detective Sturgis was out, and no, he had no idea what the call had been about. I took the mail in, changed into shorts, running shoes, and a T-shirt, and went for a night jog. The Santa Anas had returned, gentler; I ran with the wind, felt airborne.

I came back an hour later and sat by the fishpond, unable to make out the koi as anything more than bubbles on the black surface of the water. But hearing them, hearing the song of the waterfall, my mind started to clear.

I stayed there a while longer, then went back up to the house, ready for the present tense. I thought of phoning Linda, tried to convince myself my motives were purely professional, then realized I didn’t have her home number. Neither did Information. I viewed it as an omen, settled in for another night alone.

Nine o’clock. Evening news on the local station; I was becoming a tragedy junkie. I cracked a Grolsch, settled back, and clicked the remote.

The broadcast began with a regurgitation of the usual international mess, followed by a machine-gun spatter of local crime stories: an armored-van robbery at a savings and loan in Van Nuys, one guard killed, the other in critical condition. A Pacoima crack-smoker who’d gone berserk and stabbed his eight-year-old son to death with a butcher knife. A five-year-old girl snatched out of her front yard up in Santa Cruz.

Tough competition; nothing on the Hale sniping.

I sat through ten minutes of the feathery stuff that passes for human interest journalism in L.A. Tonight’s main feature was a millionaire Newport Beach urologist who’d won the lottery and vowed his life-style wouldn’t change. Next came shots of the new Rose Queen opening a shopping mall in Altadena.

Happy talk between the anchors.

Weather and sports.

The doorbell rang. Probably Milo, here to tell me, in person, what he’d called about.

I opened the door, directing my eyes upward toward Milo’s six-foot-three level. But the eyes that stared back were a good nine inches lower. Bloodshot gray-blue eyes behind eyeglasses in clear plastic frames. Bloodshot but so bright and focused, they seemed to pierce the glass, dominating a smallish, triangular face. Pasty complexion rendered sallow by the bug-light over the door. Mouth tightly set. Small, thin nose with narrow nostrils flanking an incongruous bulb-tip. Wispy brown-gray hair blowing in the night wind. A nondescript face above a tan windbreaker zipped to the neck.

My gaze fell to his hands. Pale and long-fingered, wringing each other.

“Dr. Delaware. I presume.” Nasal voice. Not a trace of levity. The hackneyed line rehearsed… No, more contrived than that. Programmed.

I looked over his shoulder. Down in the carport was a silver-gray Honda with blackened windows.

I was suddenly certain he’d been standing out there for a while. My neck hairs prickled and I put one hand on the door and took a step backward.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Burden,” he said, making it sound like an apology. “My daughter’s… There’s been some… trouble with her. She… I’m sure you know.”

“Yes, I do, Mr. Burden.”

He extended both hands in front of him, knitted together, as if containing something precious or lethal. “What I… I’d like to talk to you, Dr. Delaware, if you could spare the time.”

I stepped back and let him in.

He looked around, still wringing his hands, eyes bouncing around the living room, like a billiard trick shot.

“You have a very nice home,” he said. Then he started to weep.