Time Bomb

12

I mulled over Burden’s offer without coming to any conclusion, woke up Friday morning still thinking about it. I put it aside and drove to the school to work with the ones I was sure were the good guys.

I could tell I was making progress: The children seemed bored, and a good part of each session was spent in free play. Most of the afternoon was spent working individually with the high-risk youngsters. A few were still experiencing sleep problems but even they seemed more settled.

Doing remarkably well.

But what would the long-term effects be?

By four I was sitting in an empty classroom thinking about that. Realizing how poorly my training had prepared me for the work I was doing, how few insights standard psychology had to offer about the effects upon children of traumatic violence. Perhaps my experiences could be useful to others- other victims and healers, certain to materialize soon in a world grown increasingly psychopathic. I decided to keep detailed clinical records, was still writing at five when a custodian lugging a mop and bucket stuck his head into the room and asked how long I was planning to be there. I collected my stuff and left, passing Linda’s office. Carla’s work space was dark, but the light was on in the inner office.

I knocked.

“Come in.”

She was at her desk reading, slightly stooped, looking intense.

I said, “Cramming?”

She put her book down, swiveled around, and motioned toward the L-shaped couch. She had on an off-white knit dress, thin gold chain, white stockings with a subtle wave pattern running through them vertically, and medium-heeled white pumps.

“I was wondering if you’d drop by,” she said. “Heard we had visitors yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “A veritable bath in the milk of human kindness.”

“Lord. And it just keeps on coming.”

She turned back toward the desk and took something out of a drawer. White cassette. “Three more boxes of these showed up this morning via registered mail. Carla didn’t know what it was. She signed for the whole shebang.”

“Just tapes, no people?”

“Just tapes. But Dobbs’s office did call to confirm the delivery. Carla was out delivering memos to the classrooms and I took the call.”

“Butt-covering,” I said. “The mail registration is proof for any state auditors that he fulfilled his contract and is entitled to every penny Massengil paid him.”

“That’s what I figured. I asked to speak to him directly and they put him on. The yahoo was all sweetness and light. Wanting to know how the poor little things were doing. Things. He probably sees them as things. Assuring me he was on twenty-four-hour call in case of emergencies. I’ll sleep so much better knowing that.”

“And no doubt the phone call will be logged as professional consultation and billed for.”

“He made sure to let me know you and he had conferred,” she said. “That the two of you were of one mind with regard to clinical issues. He approves of your methods, Doctor- doesn’t that make your day?”

“Sounds like he wants to compromise,” I said. “We don’t expose his little scam, let him make a few bucks on the tapes, and he backs off.”

“How does that sit with you?”

I thought about it. “I can live with it if it means he stays out of the picture.”

“So can I,” she said. “What does that make us?”

“Realists.”

“Ugh.” She waved her hand. “I refuse to waste any more time on sleaze. How do the kids look to you?”

“Very good, actually.” I gave her a progress report.

She nodded. “I’ve been hearing the same kind of thing from the parents we’ve spoken to on the phone. Definitely less anxiety. It’s helped me to convince quite a few of them to send their kids back, so you’ve done a real good deed.”

“I’m glad.”

“At first, mind you, they were skeptical. Confused by what the kids were doing- drawing pictures of the sniper, tearing her up, getting mad. There’s always that impulse to protect, try to hush things up. But results talk loudly. I’ve lined up at least a couple of dozen mothers for your Monday meeting.”

“There’s something else you should know about,” I said. “Another visit.” I told her about Mahlon Burden.

“How weird- out of the blue like that.”

“It was, but he’s pretty stressed. He’s convinced Holly’s innocent, wants me to conduct a psychological autopsy, show the world what made her tick. Somehow that’s going to lead to proving her innocence.”

Without hesitation she said, “I think you should do it. It’s a great opportunity.”

“Opportunity for what?”

“Learning. Understanding what went wrong- what did make her tick.”

“I can’t be sure I’ll come up with anything significant, Linda.”

“Whatever you come up with, it’ll be more than we’ve got now, right? And the more I’ve been thinking about it- now that the shock’s worn off- the weirder the whole thing is. A girl, Alex. What in the world could lead her to do something like that? Who was she shooting at? The media have basically dropped it. The police haven’t told us a thing. If her father’s willing to talk to you, why not take him up on it? Maybe you can learn something about her- some warning sign- that can help prevent something like this happening again.”

I said, “His willingness to have me exhume her psychologically is being influenced by heavy denial, Linda. Once his defenses break down, he’s likely to change his mind. If I start coming up with stuff he doesn’t approve of, he’ll probably end the whole thing.”

“So? In the meantime, you learn what you can.”

I didn’t reply.

She said, “What’s the problem?”

“My first allegiance is to the kids. I don’t want to be perceived as being aligned with the bad guys.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. You’ve earned your stripes around here.”

“Milo- Detective Sturgis- has reservations about it.”

“Sure he does. Typical cop-think- bunker mentality.”

Before I could answer, she said, “Well, no matter what anyone thinks, in the end it’s got to be your decision. So do what you feel is best.”

She looked away, put the tape down, and began straightening the papers on her desk.

The chill…

I said, “I’m leaning toward telling him yes. I plan to let him know over the weekend.”

“Ah, the weekend,” she said, still straightening. “Can’t believe this week’s actually ending.”

“Got a busy one lined up?”

“Just the usual scut. Chores, TCB time.”

I said, “How about forgetting about business for a while?”

She arched her eyebrows but didn’t look at me.

“Let me be more explicit,” I said. “An early dinner- let’s say in half an hour. Somewhere quiet, with a well-stocked bar. All shoptalk forbidden. Bring a little elegance into our otherwise humdrum lives.”

She looked down at her dress, touched one knee. “I’m not exactly dressed for elegance.”

“Sure you are. Hand me the phone and I’ll make a reservation right now.”

The eyebrows arched higher. She gave a small laugh and turned to me. “A take-charge guy?”

“When something’s worth taking charge of.” It came out sounding like a line. I said, “Hey, babe, what’s your sign?”

She laughed harder and gave me the phone.

It took her a while to organize her things, write memos and reminders. I used the time to go into Carla’s office and call in for messages. Two people who’d started college at sixteen, unable to let go of the compliant-kid role.

Finally, we left the building. She still looked tense, but she slipped her arm through mine.

The custodian was eager to lock up the school grounds and begin his weekend, so she drove the Escort onto the street and parked just outside the gate. We took the Seville and headed west. The restaurant I’d chosen was on a busy stretch of Ocean Avenue across from the bluffs that look down on the birth of Pacific Coast Highway. French but friendly, a clean white decor and canvas-topped front porch with a waist-high brick wall that allowed alfresco dining while segregating the sidewalk throng. We got there by six-fifteen. Several homeless people were competing with the parking valets for turf. I gave away a few dollars and got dirty looks from the valets.

We were seated at the bar for another twenty minutes before being escorted to a spot under the canvas. By eight-thirty, the Big-Deal-Pending folks would be tooling up in rented Mercedes and designer Jeeps that would have intimidated Patton, but at this hour we were opening the place.

Across the street, a grove of coco palms crowned the bluffs. Through the crosshatched trunks of the big trees, the sky was trapezoids of blood-red streaked with aqua, diluting to hammered copper near the horizon. As we sipped our drinks, it deepened to indigo. I watched the play of light and shadow on Linda’s face. She’d pinned her hair up. A few fine golden strands had come loose near the nape of her neck. They caught the last hints of daylight and glowed like electric filament.

I said. “Isn’t this better than TCBing?”

She nodded, rested her chin in her hand, and looked out at the sunset. Long graceful neck. Grace Kelly profile.

The waiter came, lit the table candle, and recited the daily specials. The kitchen must have overstocked on rabbit, because he kept pushing some kind of hare stew provençale.

She smiled up at him, said, “Sorry, but I just couldn’t eat Bugs,” and chose grilled white sea bass. I ordered steak in peppercorn sauce and a bottle of Beaujolais nouveau.

We drank and didn’t say much. It took a long time to get served. When the food came she ate with the same gusto she’d shown the first time.

First time. Our second dinner. Despite that, despite all those chats in her office, I knew little about her.

I caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back but seemed preoccupied.

“What is it?” I said.

“Nothing.”

“Not back at work, I hope.”

“No, no, not at all. This is lovely.”

“But there’s still something on your mind?”

She ran a finger up the stem of her wineglass. “I guess I’m trying to figure out if this is a date.”

“Do you want it to be?”

She shook her finger at me. “Now you sound like a shrink.”

“Okay,” I said, sitting up straight and clearing my throat. “Back to take-charge guy. It’s a date, babe. Now be a good girl and eat your fish.”

She saluted and put her hand down on the table. Long, graceful fingers that I covered with mine.

She took a deep breath. Even in the dim light I could see her color deepen. “I’m really pretty full. How about we skip dessert?”

Time had raced; it was nearly nine by the time we got back in the car. She closed her eyes, put her head back, and stretched her legs. Then more silence.

I said, “How about a drive?” and when she nodded, headed north on Ocean and turned onto the ramp that leads down to Pacific Coast Highway. I slipped Pat Metheny into the tape deck and drove in the slow lane all the way to western Malibu, just past the Ventura County line. Mountains on one side, ocean on the other- past Decker Canyon, very little evidence of human disruption. I got to Point Mugu before beginning to feel drowsy. I looked over at Linda. The light from the dashboard was barely strong enough for me to make out her features. But I could see that her eyes were closed and she had a satisfied-child smile on her face.

The car clock said it was ten-fifteen. The highway sign said we were nearly at Oxnard. I thought of the last time I’d driven this way. To Santa Barbara, with Robin. I turned the car around, ejected Metheny, fed Sonny Rollins into the deck, and headed back to L.A. listening to the magic sax turn “Just Once” into something transcendental.

When I stopped at the light at Sunset Beach, Linda stirred and blinked.

I said, “Good morning.”

She sat up. “Good Lord! Did I fall asleep on you?”

“Like the proverbial baby.”

“How rude. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Your serenity rubbed off on me.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten after eleven.”

“Unbelievable- I just lost two hours.” She sat straighter and smoothed her hair. “I can’t believe I just conked out like this.”

I patted her wrist. “No sweat. I’ll just expect total vivaciousness next time.”

She gave a noncommittal laugh and said, “I guess you’d better take me back to get my car.”

The light turned green. I got onto Sunset, reached the manicured magnolias of Ocean Heights just before midnight.

A cold, thick fog had settled in. Esperanza Drive was silent and blanketed by a crushing darkness. Not a soul on the street; the diamond windows of the ranch houses were black as obsidian, the low-voltage glow of landscaping spotlights dulled to amber smudges. Only a few illuminated doorbell buttons managed to pierce the vapor, orange discs that followed us, a battalion of tiny cyclops eyes.

My windshield clouded and I turned on the wipers. They scraped out a lazy four-four and I felt my eyelids droop.

Linda said, “Never been here at this hour. It’s eerie- so… vacant.”

I said, “L.A., but more so,” and drove slowly toward the school. As we neared the spot where she’d left her car, I saw something. Two more eyes. Red irises. Taillights. Another car, parked in the middle of the street.

The fog had grown thicker; I couldn’t see ten feet in front of me. I put the wipers on high, but the windshield kept beading with moisture and fogging up on the backbeat of the four-four. I reduced speed, rolled closer, saw movement through the haze- a manic blur of movement, trapped by my headlights. Then harsh music: dull percussion followed by a solo of breaking glass.

“Hey,” said Linda, “what the- that’s my car!”

More thumping and shattering. The crunch and scrape of metal against metal.

I gunned the engine and sped forward. Movement. Clearer, but not clear. Human movement. The pad of footsteps over the swoop-swoop of the wipers. Then another engine revving. I opened my window and screamed, “What the hell’s going on!”

Tires squealed and the taillights diminished to pinpoints before disappearing into the mist.

I jammed the Seville into park and sat there, breathing hard. I could hear Linda’s respiration racing ahead of mine. She looked terrified but made a move to get out. I held her wrist and said, “Wait.”

“Oh, Jesus Lord.”

I turned off the wipers. We endured an evil minute, then another. When I was convinced we were alone, I got out of the car.

Cold silent street. The fog had an ozone smell.

Beads of glass littered the street, vitreous against the damp pavement, like melting hail.

I looked up and down Esperanza. Down the row of ranch houses, still dark.

The silence stretched and became absurd. Not a hint of movement, not a single window yellowing, or the merest creak of curiosity.

Despite the racket, Ocean Heights slept soundly. Or pretended to.

Linda got out of the Seville. We examined her Escort. The windshield of the little car had been punched out. So had the windows on the driver’s side. The hood had been caved in and was riddled with fissures that were raw metal around the edges. Bubbles of safety glass dusted the surface and pooled in the low spots.

“Oh no,” she said, gripping my arm and pointing.

Another type of assault: the once-white roof was a cyclone scrawl of red and black spray paint.

Abstract art: a coiling, dripping portrait of hate.

Abstract except for one clear bit of representation.

Covering the driver’s door, sprayed and resprayed for emphasis, its diagonal cruelty unmistakable even in the fog, was a black swastika.