Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“What kind of noise?”

“Something hitting the floor,” said Cory. “Like a person. Then it got quiet and she came in all covered with blood. I thought she was going to come in and shoot me but she didn’t have no gun. She kept saying, ‘Fuck.’ Then the door knocked and she left and she was talking to someone else.”

“That was us, Cory.”

“Good.” The boy’s eyelids fought gravity, lost.

He stayed asleep.

Two days later, I sat by Cory’s bed in the surgical unit, polishing a custody report on my iPad as I waited for him to emerge from anesthesia.

The first of many operations had ended an hour ago. Results were “as well as can be expected,” per the surgeon. She was donating her services. So was Rick. The hospital was working with Medi-Cal to recoup whatever it could.

By three fifteen, Cory’s eyes had cleared. A few minutes later, he focused on me and managed a nod. I’d been in and out of the room, yesterday, pouring water and soda for him, avoiding anything remotely therapeutic. It’s what I taught my interns and fellows when I worked oncology: Patients whose diagnosis isn’t psychiatric hate anything shrinky, so don’t make matters worse and just be a nice person.

By day’s end Cory had relaxed.

Now he gave a goofy smile, licked parched lips. I went over and held a cup of water to his barely open mouth.

He croaked, cleared his throat. Moments later: “Thanks, Doc.”

His eyes closed and opened. “You’re here... a lot. Have a lot of time?”

“For you, I do.”

“Because I’m screwed up?”

“Because you’ve been through hell and I want to help.”

“That’s why you did the GoFundMe?”

“That was Lieutenant Sturgis’s idea.”

“It came in super-fast,” he said. “After that big donation in the beginning.”

Part of this year’s tax deductions. I said, “People see it as a worthy cause, Cory.”

“Hmm... all the time, since my mom disappeared, only a few people have been cool with me. Like Miss Edda, without her...” Trying to raise his hand, he failed and winced.

I said, “More water?”

“Um... don’t want to be bratty, Doc, but I’d kind of like 7UP?”

“What a demanding guy,” I said, reaching for the can.

He smiled.

Half a cup of soda later, he was talking.

“I always knew he did it. I thought from the way the police were that they knew but they never admitted it. Probably figured I was a stupid kid, I shouldn’t know. But I knew. I wanted to go up and tell I knew but I was scared shitless. He left anyway. That made me happy even though I didn’t know what was going to happen to me by myself. You know what happened, right, Doc?”

“You got put in fosters.”

“A lot of ’em... that was okay. I told myself to stop thinking about it. About Mom. I stopped for a while. Then, I couldn’t. Especially when I was older, working, the thoughts just kept coming back, like songs would do that, like opening up a window in my brain. I got angry. Went looking and found where he was.”

“How’d you do that, Cory?”

“It wasn’t so hard, Doc. He used to work for the school district doing computer stuff so I called, said I was his son, just got out of the army, was away for a long time in Iraq, needed to find him. I lied about that because it was part true, I tried to join the army, even the Coast Guard, but there was something with my spine, a fused bone. So I used that and they looked him up and said he’d transferred to the school district in L.A. I called them and told them the same thing.”

Pushing lank, pale hair off a pimpled forehead. “I added another lie. I’d been shot in Iraq. They gave me the address.”

“On Evada Lane.”

“Yeah. The other one I found by following him.”

A glance at his damaged hand. “Maybe that’s why it happened, huh? Lie about a bad thing that doesn’t happen and you get one that does happen?”

I said, “I could get all moralistic with you, Cory, but I seriously doubt that.”

“You don’t believe in karma?”

“Not literally.”

“How do you believe in it?”

“Sometimes the things we do bring direct consequences, sometimes stuff just happens.”

“And people get away with it.”

“I’m afraid they do, Cory.”

He looked at his empty cup. I poured soda and helped him drink. When he finished he let out a puff of air, then a burp. “ ’Scuse me... it actually doesn’t hurt that bad. Probably the dope they put me on.” A beat. “I never did real dope, just some weed. Like when I was playing at The Carpenter, there was all kinds of pills and shit around. I never did that, didn’t want to screw up my playing.”

“The other musicians offered.”

“How’d you know?”

“I used to play in a band, went through the same thing.”

“When?”

“When I was about your age.”

“Before you were a doctor.”

“Way before, to make money to pay for college.”

“Piano?”

“Guitar.”

“Huh. So you never fooled with dope, either.”

“A little weed.”

He grinned. “That’s acceptable.”

I said, “So you got the address on Evada and began watching him.”

“I got it but I chickenshitted out of going up to him. It was this real nice neighborhood. A lot nicer than where we ever lived. That seemed so totally wrong, he was a rich guy and Mom was...”

He looked away. “I got kind of a hollow feeling, drove back to Santa Barbara feeling like a total loser. For a long time I thought about... doing a bad thing. I always chickenshitted out. Smoked weed, not going to lie to you, also beer. Trying not to feel, you know?”

“Sure.”

“But I still felt, Doc. Shitty and like a loser and tired. At night, I played at The Carpenter and other bars. During the day I had nothing to do so I hung out on the beach, slept in the Camaro — is it okay? The Camaro?”

“Safe and sound,” I said. After being gone over with an LAPD technical comb. “You mind if it gets a wash and wax?”

Big smile. “Sure. The tags—”

“Taken care of.”

“Wow,” he said.

“So you hung at the beach.”

“Always liked the beach. ’Specially when there wasn’t a lot of people around. Sometimes down in Carpenteria or Oxnard, sometimes back in the city near Stearn’s Wharf. Mom used to take me there, we’d go up to the pier, have fried shrimp, look at the sea lions.”

Brown eyes filmed.

I said, “Stearn’s is where you met Hal.”

“Yeah. He was also hanging out. Sitting on a blanket, I was sitting on sand. I thought he was a pervert because when I looked at him, he smiled. But he didn’t do anything pervy, just looked at the water and drank Diet Coke except if he’d catch me looking, then he’d smile. I still thought he was weird. Then he got up and came over, limping, and said, ‘You okay, son?’ ”

Cory grimaced. “The way he said it. Like he meant it. Like... he could tell I was a messed-up loser. Like he... I didn’t want to tell him anything but I don’t know why, I ended up telling him.”

“About your mom.”

“About her. About him, an evil fucker living in Pacific Palisades. He sat down next to me on the sand, listened and didn’t say nothing. When I was finished, he said, ‘I’m no superhero, kid, but if you’re scared to face him alone, I can go with you.’ I should’ve decided he’s definitely a perv. But I didn’t. Something about the way he — I know I could’ve been totally ripped off but I guess I wasn’t. So I guess I was right.”

“Hal was sincere.”

“But I told him no, thanks. He said, ‘Just putting it out there.’ Then I got a little mad and said why would you do that, you don’t know me? He said, ‘Yeah, it’s pretty stupid and weird but I’ve had my problems, I know what problems are, kid.’ Then he pointed to his leg, said he’d messed it up a long time ago, couldn’t work a real job, was always trying to find usefulness in his life. Or something like that.”