Twisted

CHAPTER 52

THURSDAY, JUNE 27, 11:23 P.M., VERMONT AVENUE, ONE BLOCK SOUTH OF PICO

The Toyota stalled again.

Third time in a mile. Isaac shifted into neutral, coasted into the right lane as cars sped around him. Depressing the clutch, then releasing as he gassed, he tried to revive the ignition. A sputter, a nanosecond of panic, and the puny engine was chugging again. Pausing on the brink of death… resuscitating.

Barely.

Freakin’ piece of junk. So much for Montalvo, his father’s friend, the alleged mechanic.

Or maybe it was his own fault- poor stick-shift skills. It had been a long time since he’d gotten behind the wheel.

He snail-crawled north on Vermont, struggling to keep the gas flow even, anticipating lights and working at minimizing unnecessary stops and starts.

Half-moon night, pebbled lunar light filtering through neon and smog and humidity. No shortage of activity on Vermont at this hour. Rainbows of neon in Spanish, then Korean, then Spanish again. The car wheezed steadily past darkened buildings that alternated with the flash and buzz of bars and liquor stores and clubs.

Asian kids milling around the better-looking clubs. Nice clothing, souped up wheels that worked. The confident smiles of affluent youth.

Then back to the working-class Mexican and Salvadoran joints.

Vamos a bailar…

English was his language, his passport to some suburban Xanadu, but sometimes he dreamed in Spanish. Mostly, he didn’t dream.

Music poured out of a raunchy-looking dance-place as he putt-putted by.

The gaiety didn’t seem right for killing time.

Neither did the weather; warm night, a pleasant breeze.

Maybe this wasn’t killing time.

Had to be. No, it didn’t. Look how wrong he’d been.

P-Kasso.

Even if something was going to happen tonight, he’d almost certainly embarked on a fool’s mission.

Heading for a destination based on theory and the cold, flat religion that was logic.

The single best deduction, given the facts. But what did facts mean?

Chances were he was wrong, yet again. Dreadfully, tragically wrong.

At Third Street, the Toyota sputtered and threatened to die once more. Holding his breath he pressed down gently on the accelerator and the damn thing relented.

He made it to Fourth, Beverly…

Idiotic and quixotic, but what else could he do? Petra’s cell was still transferred- some police thing, for sure, what the cops called a tactical line. And contacting anyone else at the department was out of the question. Would bring the cops looking for him.

Four-fifteen mental case, male Hispanic, heading north on Vermont in a moribund clunker.

He passed Melrose. Just another couple of miles…

And then what?

He’d park at a safe distance, proceed on foot. Check out the layout and find some kind of vantage point.

Playing detective.

The object of his guess: Western Pediatrics Hospital. The one place you could count on a slew of nurses who took care of children.

He’d rotated through Western Peds as a pre-med sophomore. Introduced by a bio professor who wanted aspiring physicians to see what health care was really like.

Isaac had found the hospital a wonderful, terrifying place, brimming with compassion, frantic activity, the saddest stories of all.

The big-eyed stares of very sick kids. Bald heads, waxy skin, stick-limbs tethered to I.V. lines.

He’d decided, then and there, that pediatrics wasn’t for him.

Now he was headed back there on a return trip so terribly asinine it made him tremble.

The car made a retching noise. Isaac’s body lurched backward as the vehicle accelerated spontaneously. He maintained shaky control, rolled through an intersection just south of Santa Monica. Violated a boulevard stop and narrowly avoided being pulverized by a house-sized supermarket truck.

The trucker’s klaxon rage filled his ears as he kept going.

Two seconds later, the Toyota gave up.

On foot.

Jogging the half-mile to Sunset, staying in the darkness, close to buildings so as not to attract attention.

Male mental case running north…

He reached his destination by eleven forty-three, slowed his pace, and stayed on the south side of the boulevard as he ambled toward the big, blocky buildings of the hospital complex.

Most of the structures were dark. The Western Peds logo- a pair of blue-and-white clasped hands- glowed from the top of the main building.

He remained in the shadows as women, mostly young women, in white and pale pink and pastel blue and canary yellow uniforms, streamed out of several doors and crossed Sunset.

Only twenty or so nurses, stragglers at the end of the day shift. If through some miracle he was right, the bastard would be watching.

But from where?

Isaac watched the nurses arrive at a sign that said “Staff Parking.” Arrows pointed both ways and the group split into two. Most of the women headed west, a few east.

Two lots. Which way?

He thought it out. If Doebbler were here, he’d want things as quiet as possible.

East.

He followed five distant, female shapes down a surprisingly dim street. Shabby apartment buildings, not unlike his own, lined the journey. Half a block north sat a two-level parking structure.

Dark. The nurses walked right past the cement tiers and as Isaac got close to the structure, he saw the chained entrance. The sign hanging from the mesh gate.

“Earthquake Retrofitting, Due for Completion, August 2003.”

The nurses kept going. Twenty more feet, thirty, fifty. Nearly to the end of the block. Another sign, too distant to read, but Isaac made out cars in dirt.

He sped up.

“Temporary Staff Parking.”

High-intensity lights bleached the rear right-hand corner of the outdoor lot. The left fixture was out and half the space was a belt of black.

Poor maintenance or a predator’s move?

The slim chance of the latter gave Isaac hope he’d guessed right.

Stupid hope. The city was filled with scores of other health facilities, many of which treated children. How many treated lung diseases? He had no idea.

This was worse than angels-on-a-pinhead academic theorizing. This was wild guesswork primed for the worst kind of error.

He crossed the street and slipped between two apartment buildings, feeling the softness of weeds beneath his feet. Smelling the stink of dog shit.

Home sweet home.

He stepped back another foot, made sure he had a long but clear view of the dirt lot. For all he knew, Doebbler was watching from a nearby spot, could hear his raspy breathing.

He silenced himself. Watched the five nurses head for their cars, some highlighted by the functioning light fixture, others slipping into invisibility.

The dark side would have to be it. If…

11:54.

Ififififififififif.