Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

Not far from a rent-a-horse ranch where I used to ride when I worked at Western Pediatric. Walking distance from Franklin Avenue, but heavily wooded and freakishly quiet. I remembered how bends in the trail opened abruptly to dry, flat mesas. The vulgar message of the Hollywood sign.

Milo said, “I’m starved,” and called out for four barbecued beef sandwiches from a place on Western. I had one, he ate two, he passed the last one to Tasha, who said, “Normally I stay away from red meat, but that smells yum.”

By six forty the sky was felt-gray deepening to black and we put her back in the Seville.

She said, “I’m still tasting that lovely sauce.”

Milo said, “Behave yourself and you can have dessert.”

“So kind, sir. I do like this car. ”

I drove up Beachwood, parked two blocks south of Altair Terrace.

Milo unbelted. “Time for a little hike.”

“Sir, it’s uphill, you sure you’re okay?”

“Your concern is touching. Let’s go.”

“Is this guaranteed safe?”

“What are you worried about?”

“He could see me.”

“What makes you think he’s here?”

“You’re taking me here.”

“This is to jog your memory.”

“I already told you, this is definitely the place.”

“We’re not on the street yet.”

“This is it, I feel it.”

“ESP?”

“I get feelings,” she said. “In my hair, the roots get all tingly, means I’m getting a message.”

“Out of the car.”

One block later: “Can we at least go slow, sir? My poor little feet are so sore.”

“I offered to get you some sneakers.”

“With this dress? As if. Can we just go slow?”

Milo exhaled and shortened his steps.

Tasha winked at me.

Ebony night; no sidewalks or streetlights, wide spacing between the properties filled with unruly greenery and old-growth trees.

A world in silhouette.

Tasha said, “That’s the party house, I’m sure. Let’s go.”

“Whisper.”

“Sorry. That’s the party-”

“I heard you. Which one?”

“Um, we’re not there yet.”

“Forward march.”

Ninety seconds later: “That’s the one! All the way on top!”

“ Whisper, dammit!”

“Sorry, sorry. That’s it. For sure.”

A long-nailed hand pointed to a low, pale box perched on the uppermost rim of the cul-de-sac.

Milo motioned us to stay in place, hiked past three houses, then four more. Stopped just short of the target. Waited. Hazarded a quick flashlight wash of the façade.

Blank but for a single shuttered window. Garage to the left, with a corrugated aluminum door.

The flashlight beam dipped to a cement walkway. Pines and eucalyptus towered behind the flat roof. Sparse vegetation in front: a spindly yucca plant and a stunted palm.

Milo padded back. “You’re sure?”

Tasha said, “Absolutely, sir. That stupid spiky thing, got a run in my stocking. And over there’s where if you step out in back you can see the sign and over there is where Tony – rest-his-soul – and me walked.”

Tracing the curve of the cul-de-sac. “It’s all coming back to me – out there is where all the coyote screaming came from, I got so scared, sir, it was dark just like it is now. I hate the darkness, can we go ?”

“Stay put with my partner.” He retraced his climb, got closer to the pale house.

Tasha said, “All that climbing can’t be good for him.”

I didn’t answer.

“He should work out… You don’t say much, sir… It’s too weird out here, real scary-quiet, know what I mean, like something’s gonna jump out? Like something’s gonna – quiet’s basically an evil thing. The devil likes quiet. The devil likes you to think everything’s nice and quiet then he jumps up and grabs you. This is a bad quiet. Even Fontana had a better quiet than this quiet. When the chickens were all sleeping you could hear the train. I liked to lie in bed listening to the train and wondering where it was going – okay, here he is again, maybe he seen enough and we can get outta here.”

Milo said, “Can’t be sure but looks like no one home.”

Tasha said, “My hair says that’s a message from God, let’s get outta here, find us some noise.”

As we descended Altair Terrace, Milo phoned in outlining a surveillance plan for later that night.

At Beachwood, Tasha said, “I’m feeling my appetite coming back. You can drop me at the Baskin-Robbins.”

Before Milo could answer, headlights whitewashed us.

Single vehicle climbing from the south.

Milo pushed Tasha into the brush.

The headlights reached the intersection. VW bus, a dim color hard to make out in the darkness. Grinding noise as its tires turned left onto Altair.

Tasha said, “They need transmission fluid.”

Milo stepped out, reached for the side of the bus just as it turned, tapped the passenger door.

One hand on his holstered gun, the other waving his badge.

The bus stopped short. Milo made a cranking motion.

The passenger window rolled down manually. The driver’s hand remained on the handle as she leaned toward him.

Young woman, thirty or so, with wide, surprised eyes and short brown hair. The rear of the bus was piled high with cardboard boxes.

“Do you live on this street, ma’am?”

“Uh-huh. Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing to be alarmed about. Do you know the occupants of the house at the end of the road?”

“Not really.”

“No?”

“I – they’re not there.”

“Not around much?”

Her eyes flicked to the rear of the bus. “Nope.”

Milo said, “Everything okay, ma’am?”

“You surprised me. I have to go, Officer. Have a child to look after.”

Biting her lip, she gunned the engine, ground the gears, lurched forward, nearly running over Milo ’s foot.

He fell back, barely held on to his balance.

We watched as the bus putt-putted up Altair.

Tasha said, “Maybe it’s me, but that’s one scared girl.”

We stayed in the shadows, watched as the bus parked between the pale house and its nearest neighbor.

I said, “When you asked if she lived here, she said ‘Something’s wrong.’ Statement, not a question.”

Milo got on the phone again, whispered orders.

The van sat there for several minutes before the woman got out and unlatched the rear doors.

Shaking her head; as if responding to an unseen questioner.

A second figure emerged from the bus. Taller, short hair, shirt and pants.

Male.

He pointed at the woman and the two of them pulled something out of the van.

Rectangular; a carton, maybe four feet long.

The man straight-armed the woman away, completed the extrication, lowered the box to the ground.

The bump was audible.

The woman let out a high-pitched noise. The man’s hand on her shoulder silenced her.

She reached for the box.

He slapped her hand away. Pointed again. She moved several feet away. Stood there. Hand to mouth.

The man began rocking the carton.

Let go of it.

The woman lunged forward, broke the fall, straightened the box.

The man placed his hands on his hips.

The sound of laughter filtered down Altair.

The woman tried to lift the carton, failed.

The man grasped one end and the two of them carried it toward the pale house.

Milo said, “Here goes aerobics,” and took off on big, rubber-soled feet.

I heard the scuffle before I saw it.

Tasha shivered, grabbed a branch for support. Leaves rattled.

I said, “Don’t budge an inch.”