Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

The fog dissipated, and he saw dozens of women standing around him. There were women of every age, shape, and physical description, even hardened women from the street. They were miserable creatures, their faces racked by suffering. They formed a circle around him, and he spun around on his heels, looking for a single familiar face among them.

A tall black woman touched his arm. Her face was the one of the most frightening things he’d ever seen, her mouth twisted grotesquely as if by a wire. She put her hand beneath his chin and brought his head up, making him look. Ashamed, he stared into her face without flinching.

“Help us,” she whispered.

She had been normal once, he could see that behind the distortion. Normal, maybe even attractive. But who was she?

He felt another hand, then another. From the second and third row of the circle the women reached out to lay a hand someplace upon his body, some kneeling to touch his legs, their hands touching everywhere. He watched as women in the front gave up their spots so others could take their place and touch him.

A teenage girl who could have been his daughter’s twin came forward. Strawberry blond hair, aqua blue eyes, cute dimples. He had seen her before, and struggled to remember from where. Then it hit him. Her name was Lori Appleby, and her photo had been in the log of Death’s victims which Wondero had shown him.

Appleby edged closer. Several women moved aside, allowing her to stand next to him. She placed her hand on his sleeve. Then her eyes found his face.

“You’ve got to stop him,” she said. “We can’t leave if you don’t.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in. When they did, he felt tears run down his face and he began to cry, his chest heaving with the knowledge that each and every one of these women had been real, just like himself. His heart ached for Appleby and all the women here: for their club of lost souls.

Hardare gasped for air. He began to weaken and felt Appleby and the others tighten their hold on him, and lift him cleanly over their shoulders. In the dark infinity above him, he saw a tiny sliver of light. With both arms he reached toward it, praying it was his salvation.

Wondero and his partner were there when the excavation team pulled Hardare out of the rubble. Still alive, the magician gave a thumbs-up to the detectives as an oxygen mask was fitted on his face, and he was placed on a stretcher and put into the back of an ambulance. His wife and daughter, standing nearby, cheered like they were at a football game.

The ambulance pulled away, its siren blaring. Jan and Crystal Hardare hopped into a car and quickly followed, leaving the detectives staring at a giant hole in the ground.

“How long was he down there?” Rittenbaugh asked.

“Over an hour,” Wondero replied.

“Mind telling me how he stayed alive? Was it a trick?”

“You think I know?”

“Sure. You’re the one with the brains.”

Wondero shook his head; he didn’t have a clue. Hardare seemed capable of doing things that weren’t humanly possible. On top of that, he seemed to be incredibly lucky. The operator of the clunky earth-moving machine had simply picked a spot amid the gigantic pile of rubble and started digging, unaware that he was directly above the laundry room where Hardare was prisoner.

They went to their car. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk to watch. They parted as the detectives passed.

It was Rittenbaugh’s turn to drive. As Wondero waited for him to unlock the doors, he spotted a willowy figure standing on the corner a hundred feet away, wavering like a match flame. His eyes weren’t what they used to be, and he squinted in frustration. The figure was a tall, well dressed black male with a pearly white smile who appeared to be motioning to him.

“I’ll be right back,” Wondero said.

Rittenbaugh had seen the figure as well. “You want back up?”

“That’s not a bad idea. Follow me in the car.”

“Got it.”

Wondero headed down the sidewalk. It was in Watts that the term “a drive-by” had been coined, with drug dealers driving by their competition on street corners and blowing them away with automatic weapons. In an area this dangerous, it was better to be safe than sorry.

He came to the corner and halted. The figure was leaning against a gleaming BMW 750 parked illegally at the curb. Wondero didn’t know him, but he knew his kind. A ghetto drug-dealer, sporting a cream-colored Italian suit and shoes that looked like slippers, his white silk shirt open at half mast, his chest ablaze in glittering gold medallions and thick gold chains. The impulse to spare some ghetto kid the misery of becoming a crack addict was powerful enough to make Wondero’s right hand twitch.

“What do you want?” Wondero snarled.

“My name is Rasheed,” the drug dealer said.

“That’s nice.”

“Chill out, brother.”

“Get lost.”

“Listen,” Rasheed said, jabbing his finger in Wondero’s direction. “If people around here see me talking with you, know what happens?” He took the same finger, placed it against his temple. “I’m taking a big risk, okay?”

“So, what do you want?”

From behind his ear Rasheed produced a small square of paper. “This is for you.”

Wondero stared suspiciously at his outstretched hand. If someone snapped a photo with a cell phone, it would look like he was taking a bribe.

“What is it?”

“Information,” Rasheed said.

“About what?”

“There’s been a crazy man in the neighborhood, scaring the shit out of people. One of my runners saw him get into his car right as the apartment house was coming down. He was driving a blue Buick Skylark, real beat-up.”

Wondero took the paper and unfolded it. Scrawled on it was a California license tag. BCL -149H. His hands started to tremble. “Did your boy happen to see anything else?” Wondero asked.

“My what? ” Rasheed said indignantly.

“Your runner, your track star, whatever the hell you call him, did he see anything else?”

“Come to mention it, he did.”

“Spit it out.”

“The crazy man was limping, must have fallen down when he was running away. His leg was bleeding, too.”

“Anything else?”

“That’s all I know.”

“Thanks for sharing. Now, get the hell out of here.”

“I helped you, man. Show a little respect.”

Wondero been chasing Death for four years. Until now, not a single person had stepped forward, and offered up a solid lead. He should have been thankful, only Rasheed was a pusher, and would probably end up killing just as many people in his life.

“Get the hell out of here before I arrest you.”

“What—?”

“You heard me. Beat it.”

Rasheed’s eyes simmered with hatred. Moments later the BWM pulled away with a rubbery squeal.

Rittenbaugh sat at the corner, the car idling. Wondero hopped in and punched the license into the computer on the dash. “What did he give you?” his partner asked.

“Hope,” Wondero said.

Ten minutes later, the detectives were on the Hollywood freeway driving south in the restricted right lane, doing over eighty. The license belonged to a 1998 blue Buick Skylark that was registered to Warren K. Kozlowski. His address, 2234 Cicera, Apt. 2-B, was in a seedy section of West Hollywood, a few blocks from Paramount studios.

On a hunch, Wondero had called a police dispatcher to see if the Skylark had been recently stolen, and not yet entered on the LAPD computer.

He’d been wrong. The car was clean. That had gotten his attention fast: Death had driven stolen cars around L.A. from the beginning, boldly ditching them in prominent, well-traveled spots, including the driveway of the ex-mayor. But he still had to drive his own car once in a while. In this city, there was no other way to be mobile.