Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

I said, “What exactly is your plan, Gordon?”

He turned back to me. “My plan? I just told you there was none.”

“Your intention, then, in terms of the kids.”

“My intention ,” he said, “was to break the ice with a little help from L.D., then field their questions. Give them a chance to throw stuff at me- anything they want. Give them a chance to find out the system can work for them, once in a while. Give them the opportunity to learn from Bud what it feels like to be a hero. My intention was to listen to their feelings and share mine - what it felt like to be under fire. The fact that we’re all in this together- we’d better pull together or the planet’s in trouble. I was just about to get into that when you came in.”

Sidestepping the reproach, I said, “Were you planning to do that in every class?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“To do it thoroughly might take quite a bit of time. Several days. The media are bound to find out you’re here. Once they do, we run the risk of more commotion.”

“The media can be handled,” he said quickly. “My only goal is to protect the little guys.”

“From what?”

“Not what, Alex. Whom . The users. People who’d think nothing of exploiting them for personal gain.”

He emphasized the last three words and paused, shot a knowing look over at Ahlward, who remained stoic.

“The sad thing is,” he said, “with what they’ve experienced here- what they’ve seen of the political process- they run a heavy risk of growing up cynical. Uninvolved. Which doesn’t bode well for us as a society, does it? We’re talking stagnation, Alex. To the extent that that kind of thing takes over on a large scale, we’re really in trouble. So I guess what I want is for them to see that there can be another side to politics. That there’s no need to stagnate or give up.”

From erosion to stagnation. My second dose of political rhetoric in as many days.

I said, “Another side as opposed to the one represented by Assemblyman Massengil?”

He smiled. “I won’t kid you. My opinions on Assemblyman Massengil are public record. The man’s a dinosaur, part of an era that should be long-forgotten. And the fact that he’s involved has made me take a special look at this situation. This city’s changing- the entire state is. The world is. There’s a new age of transworld intimacy that won’t be stopped. We’re inexorably linked to Latin America, to the Pacific Rim. Cowboy days are gone, but Sam Massengil hasn’t the vision to conceive of that.” Pause. “Has he been causing any more problems for you?”

“No.”

“You’re sure? Don’t be shy about letting me know, Alex. I’ll ensure you’re not caught in the middle.”

“I appreciate that, Gordon.”

His flipped his jacket forward and slipped it on. Patted his hair. “So,” he said, smiling, “this must be fulfilling work.”

“It is.”

“I notice there’s this other psychologist doing a lot of speechifying to the media. Fellow with a beard.”

“Lance Dobbs. So far he’s limited his involvement to talk.”

“You mean he hasn’t actually been here?” Indignation, mock or otherwise.

“No, he hasn’t, Gordon. One of his assistants came by but I convinced Dr. Dobbs that too many cooks would spoil the broth and she hasn’t been back since.”

“I see,” he said. “That’s certainly true- too many cooks. True in lots of other regards.”

I didn’t respond.

He said, “So. You feel you have it worked out. With Dr. Dobbs.”

“So far so good.”

“Excellent. Good for you.” He paused, touched his harmonica pocket. “Well, good luck and more power to you.”

The old two-handed grip and a nod at Ahlward. The redheaded man moved away from the door and smoothed his lapels. From inside the classroom came shouts and laughter, the young teacher’s voice, tight with frustration, trying to be heard over the tumult.

Latch turned his back on me. The two of them began walking away.

I said, “Planning on coming back, Gordon?”

He stopped, and lowered his eyebrows, as if pondering a question of cosmic proportions. “You’ve given me food for thought, Alex. I really heard you. About doing it right. Coordinating. So let me bounce it around, check my calendar, and get back to you.”

I waited until the corridor was empty, then followed at a discreet distance, made it to the door, and watched them crossing the yard, ignoring the children playing there. They then left the grounds, got into a black Chrysler New Yorker, Ahlward driving, and rode away. No other vehicles pulled out behind them. No retinue of young scrubs, no sign of the media. So perhaps the in-the-neighborhood story was genuine. But I had trouble buying it. Latch’s eager response to my question about Massengil, his questions about Dobbs, convinced me his agenda had been other than altruistic.

And the timing was too cute, coming so soon after my summons to Massengil’s office. Not that yesterday’s visit had been public knowledge. But Latch had already displayed access to Massengil’s itinerary- the day of the sniping. Ready to do battle on camera.

Now the two of them were would-be heroes. A couple of sharks, vying for a tooth-hold in the underbelly of tragedy. I wondered how long it would go on.

Politics as usual, I supposed. It reminded me of why I’d dropped out of academic medicine.

I left the school and tried to put all thoughts of politics out of my mind long enough to get some dinner down. Driving quasi-randomly, I ended up on Santa Monica Boulevard and stopped at the first place I spotted that offered easy parking, a coffee shop near Twenty-fourth Street. Someone had begun holiday decorations- plastic poinsettia on each table; windows frosted and painted with mistletoe; spavined, bucktoothed reindeer; and a few baby-blue menorahs. The good cheer hadn’t spread to the food and I left most of my roast beef sandwich on the plate, paid, and left.

It was dark. I got into the Seville and pulled out of the lot. Traffic was too heavy for a left turn, so I headed west. Another car’s headlights filled my rearview mirror. I didn’t think much of it until a few blocks later, when I turned right again and the lights stayed with me.

I drove to Sunset.

Still the headlights. I could tell, because the left one flickered.

Narrowly spaced beams. Small car. Compact car. Too dark to determine the color or make.

I joined the eastbound flow on the boulevard. Each time I looked into the mirror, the headlights stared back at me like a pair of yellow, pupilless eyes.

I caught a red light at Bundy. The headlights edged up closer. A filling station was at the nearest corner, the pre-embargo type- expansive lot, full-serve pumps, pay phone.

I rolled forward. The headlights followed suit. When the amber light flashed for the north-south traffic, I rolled for two seconds, then made a sharp turn up the driveway, kept going until I reached the pay phone.

The car with the flickering headlight started up and drove across the intersection. I followed it, taking in as many details as I could. Brown Toyota. Two people in front. Female passenger, I thought. I couldn’t see the driver. The passenger’s head turned, facing the driver. Talking to each other. Not even a glance in my direction.

I scolded myself for being paranoid, got back on Sunset, and drove home. The operator at my service gave me an earful of messages- one from Milo, the rest all business. I put in return calls, reaching one late-working attorney, a bunch of answering machines, and the desk sergeant at Robbery-Homicide, who told me Detective Sturgis was out, and no, he had no idea what the call had been about. I took the mail in, changed into shorts, running shoes, and a T-shirt, and went for a night jog. The Santa Anas had returned, gentler; I ran with the wind, felt airborne.