J. Rain - Hail Mary

She and Sanchez. And maybe even Jack. And now Junior.

I’m weird, I thought, and drank again, deeply, from the old-school bottle of Michelob.

So why should I go and put my life on the line when I knew damn well it was a set-up? The answer was easy. At least, easy for me.

This was my chance to get answers. This was my chance to finally put this forever to rest. Something was going to go down tomorrow. One way or another, answers would be given. Lives would move on…or lives would end.

Tomorrow would be closure.

Blessed closure.

The bottle was empty now, but I still occasionally tilted it back and drank the hidden drops. Only one bottle tonight. No hangovers. I needed a clear head. Clear mind. Fast reflexes.

Tomorrow.

These past two months had been hard. And hard on my relationship with Cindy, too. And hard on the little things. Like relaxing. Like thinking about something other than my slain mother. My painting and reading had gone out the window. Yes, I paint. Not very good, granted. But it was a release for me. I saw the world the way I see the world. I painted with colors that suited me, that were alive to me.

For the past two months, color was gone from my life. I had been consumed by this, even in quiet moments with Cindy, with Sanchez, or with anyone.

This was unfinished business.

Tomorrow, it would be finished.

I thought about all of this and more as I crossed my ankles over the balcony railing and half-closed my eyes. Half-closed, because when I closed them all the way, there she was. Pale and dead and drained of blood, her hand reaching under her bed, to a box of my childhood things.

Why had she been reaching for the box?

I would never know, but I knew I had been her last thought in this world. She had thought of me while an animal stole her life and hurt her so bad.

And so I sat like that, with my eyes half-closed, waiting.

Waiting for tomorrow.

I was to meet Bert Tomlinson, retired LAPD homicide detective, at 7:00 p.m. Which is why I got there at 6:00 p.m.

It had been raining earlier in the day, which, in itself, was cause for celebration. I drove slowly through the park, around the curve of the lake, and, sure enough, there was no one here. The park said it would close at dusk, but I didn’t see anyone here to enforce such a closure. Besides, there was nothing to actually close. Unless, somehow, they drained the lake.

I ended up in a back parking lot. From there, I found a narrow dirt road that led deeper into the dense shrubbery. Irvine Lake is surrounded by a lot of stunted trees that did their best to look like woods. The undergrowth ranged from sparse to dense, and was populated by a lot of spiky plants that looked like a cross between cactus and something from Venus. On the lake before me, tethered to a floating dock, were some generic rowboats that visitors could rent.

I appeared to be alone, but I knew I wasn’t.

With my van mostly buried in ferns, creosote, huckleberry, gooseberries and sages, and surrounded by bent and twisted oaks, firs and pines, I studied the layout before me. I could clearly see the main road that led into this section of the park. The picnic tables were before me. I counted three of them.

I looked at my watch. Fifty more minutes.

I moved into the rear of my van and fetched three recorders. Each recorder, I knew, could record up to four continuous hours.

Perfect.

I next slid the side door open and waded through some milkweed and sugar brush, and stepped out into the picnic clearing. I crossed the sparse grass and, at the picnic tables, I did my best to hide the recorders in nooks and crossbeams along the underside of the tables, making sure the duct tape didn’t cover the mouthpieces.

I pressed ‘Play’ on each of them.

From here, I could smell the lake, which didn’t smell very clean. Then again, lakes rarely smelled clean. The light rain helped the smell. The rain smelled fresh and invigorating and seemed to fall straight from heaven. Maybe it did.

With the light rain came something else. A scent. A hint of perfume. A soft suggestion of flowers mixed with…what? Citrus? Yes, citrus.

I knew the scent well. In fact, I had smelled it not too long ago at the cemetery, too, although I pretended I hadn’t.

It was my mother’s perfume.

The hair on my neck stood on end and a strong shiver coursed through me. The skin along my forearms rippled in goosebumps. I stood there silently, feeling as if an electric current was moving gently through my body. I didn’t know what was happening, but I liked it.

I stood like that until the feeling went away, and when it did, I saw him driving along the dirt road, his lights out.

Bert Tomlinson.

As far as I could tell he was alone.

The park was significantly darker, and the sky between the trees was a deep purple. As far as I could tell, we were alone in the park. That is, alone to the naked eye.

He’s out there, somewhere, I thought.

Bert Tomlinson parked his Cadillac near the benches. The older Tomlinson got out of his car and walked around and ran his hand through his gray hair. He exhaled mightily. He checked his watch often, and once or twice I saw him adjust something under his armpit.

A shoulder holster.

A gun.

He checked his watch again, and I checked the time on my dash. It was almost seven.

Show time.

I threw on my high beams, blasting the open picnic area with light.

Bert spun around, shielding his eyes, and reached for something inside his jacket but thought better of it, and stopped halfway there. Smart move, since he didn’t know how many guns were trained on him.

I stepped out of my van, holding my Smith amp; Wesson out before me, and pushed through the shrubs. “Toss your gun aside, Detective,” I said.

“ I didn’t come here to get into a shoot-out with you, Knighthorse.”

“ Toss the gun,” I said, moving closer to him. I knew my own body was silhouetted in the headlights behind me. But he was brilliantly lit, and he looked incredibly old and weary. Much older than I remembered him looking.

He sighed, reached inside his jacket, and slowly withdrew his own gleaming Smith amp; Wesson. He held it loosely before him with his thumb and forefinger. I jerked my head, and he tossed it aside. It landed with a thud, and mostly disappeared in some leaves, although the shiny barrel reflected some of the headlights.

“ Can you turn off the damned lights, Knighthorse?”

“ No,” I said, and stepped closer to him. “And keep your hands up.”

He kept them up and I stepped over to him, and backhanded him hard across the mouth. He went spinning to the ground. I ordered him to stand again.

As he did so, I said, “That’s for being a shitty cop.”

The backhand had dazed him enough that I was able to quickly pat him down and verify he was weaponless. I then checked out his car. It was empty. I came back and was tempted to backhand him again, but I somehow restrained myself.

Instead, I pointed to one of the picnic benches and said, “Sit.”

He sat. I scanned the woods, or what passed for woods in this part of the country, listening hard. As far as I could tell, we were still alone. It had also begun to rain harder. It angled down through the clearing and nearly directly into my face. Bert Tomlinson hunched forward on the table, leaning on his elbows. He was dressed in a slightly heavier jacket than mine, with a hood. I didn’t believe in hoods. Hoods were for wimps. He was wearing jeans and running sneakers. I wondered if he was planning on doing any running tonight.

Something honked out on the lake. Something honked in return. Soon there was a helluva lot of honking going on. Something was spooking these geese.