Authors: Rebecca Forster
“What do you make of this?”
“I don’t know,” Erika shrugged.
“Come on. Look,” Josie commanded and Erika Gardener glared at her. There was anger behind her tired, frightened eyes, and Josie wanted it to stay there. She raised the paper and snapped it. “Oh, for God sake. It was left here for a reason,”
“Everybody who’s anybody is in that picture,” Erika answered without much interest.
“What else? Come on. Help me. I’m scared, too. I’m not thinking straight, but I’m not going to lay down and die.” Josie shook the paper. “Look. Answer me.”
“I don’t know. It’s a picture taken in court.” Erika struggled to her feet. Her skirt was torn in the back and the fabric dragged on the ground. She had thrown off her one shoe and crumpled when her bare foot hit a stone. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”
She raised her eyes to Josie. They were at two ends of the hut and Erika was breathing hard as she fought with herself. Finally, Erika walked back on her knees. She reached out with her bound hands and ripped the paper out of Josie’s.
“Okay. Fine. The judge looks surprised. Not angry, just surprised. You’re covering whoever is on the stand so I don’t know who is sitting there, but you’re leaning forward. You’re going in for the kill. I remember that. Isaiah Wilson is half out of his chair. Rothskill is turning away. He looks disgusted.”
“So it was a pivotal moment. I had hit a nerve. How do you know I was going in for the kill?”
Erika tossed the paper back to her.
“You weren’t subtle. You worked up to stuff, set it up. When you went to put the knife in someone you always leaned forward. You used your height and your voice. You would have done anything to win. Whatever you were saying, whoever you were saying it to has everyone upset.”
“You’re there. Do you remember the day?”
She shook her head, “It was a long trial. Every day there was something.”
Josie’s shoulders slumped. What Erika said was true. Seconds ticked by. Had she been asked what she was thinking, Josie would have answered ‘nothing’. But even at rest, even on the edge of despair, she was thinking. She thought about the tape on this piece of paper. There was a partial fingerprint on the sticky side. She would protect that. If they died at least there would be a clue as to who did this to them. There was something else, too. The picture was grainy. This was a second, maybe third generation reproduction, but there was an extra layer of something in the lower right hand corner. On her elbows, hands clasped so that she could rest her head on them, Josie bent close and looked hard.
“What?” Erika dragged herself forward another inch.
“I don’t know yet.” Josie looked up. “Is there anything we can use as a flat surface? It doesn’t have to be big, just hard.”
“Here.” Erika put her arm out and pointed to the ground.
Carefully, Josie picked up the paper and crawled toward Erika. The rock she found was as smooth as slate and set so deeply it couldn’t be dug out. Pity, it was probably big enough to use as a weapon, but a weapon wasn’t what Josie wanted at the moment.
“Great. Perfect. Okay, then. Here we go.”
“What are you going to do?”
Rather than answering, Josie put the paper flat, looked around, scooted back and got Erika’s shoe. She used the edge of the hard heel and rubbed with an even pressure, careful not to tear the paper.
When she was finished, Josie sat back on her heels and stared at her handiwork. Like a grave rubbing or a child’s game of secret message, the writing from a top sheet had been transferred to the bottom and along with it, a message. Erika scooted forward and saw what Josie saw. Erika began to read:
Transport
Immobilize
Punish
“He’ll be back,” Josie said with satisfaction. “He’s not finished with us.”
But Josie realized she was talking to herself. Erika had crawled back to her corner, curled onto her side and closed her eyes. Setting aside the paper, Josie sat down beside her, crossed her legs, hunched her back and started working at the knot on Erika’s bindings.
Christian Broadcast Complex, Orange County
Isaiah Wilson was finished preaching. Today he had spoken about Job. He only spoke of Job 3 through 37. He argued, as had Job’s fourth friend, that God uses pain to bring repentance. It had amused him to do so given Josie Bates’ predicament. He hoped she was in a great deal of pain, but even he knew that hell fire would not cause her to repent what she had done to him and his daughter. Still, his sermon had been wonderful because Archer’s visit had inspired him. It did not bother Isaiah that he was selective in his message; it did not bother those who listened to him. He understood that everyone took what they needed from what he said. If they wanted to look up the entire story of Job, they could.
He now walked through the complex, passing the young girl in the shapeless dress. She looked at him and then after him adoringly. When he was in her sphere, only Isaiah existed. When he passed through, her mind went back to God. It was a simple, satisfying existence that served her and Isaiah well. He assumed God was pleased, too.
He went down a little-used hallway to a door at the back of the complex. Gently, he turned the knob and eased his narrow frame through the opening. He left the door slightly ajar even though he didn’t need the hall light to navigate. He had often slept here when he couldn’t bring himself to go home and pass by Janey’s room.
Today, though, there was someone else resting here. It was a tortured soul who had come a long way for his help. It was a sign, Isaiah believed; a sign that God was happy with his plans to celebrate the anniversary of his beloved daughter’s death.
Isaiah went to the narrow bed, looked down on the young man and then leaned over and put his hand on his head.
“It’s time to wake up,” Isaiah said.
Peter Siddon rolled over and smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:
The Underground Restaurant, Hermosa Beach
It was late for lunch but Archer had been caught in traffic coming back from Orange County, and Liz had made a detour to the Blue Fin Grill on her way back from seeing Margie. They had been nonstop on the phone until Liz hit the Blue Fin, so Archer already knew about Hernandez’s visitors: his mother, the Cartwright woman who ran a literacy program, and good old Isaiah Wilson. Archer wished he’d known about that before he’d talked to Wilson. He’d make another trip if he had to, but he was already on the road.
Archer asked: Did the Cartwright woman have anything Hernandez wrote?
Liz replied: She hadn’t been able to get ahold of her yet. A call was in.
Liz filled him in that she’d waited two hours for Cuwin Martin. She decided the grapevine was working and he was laying low. He knew he had screwed up bad. Other interesting news: a missing person had already been activated on Erika Gardener based on one phone call.
Archer asked: Do you have a name for the caller?
Liz replied: No. It came in at midnight. Anonymous. Whoever it was must have made a good case for them to do the paperwork, just not good enough for anyone to go out to her place yet.
Archer was impressed. He couldn’t even get Liz to admit anything was wrong a day ago. He would never have expected LAPD to be proactive. Since that line of thinking wasn’t productive, he paid attention to Liz who continued to talk fast and make noises when the traffic ticked her off. She had tagged Gus Franklin, Hernandez’s cellmate for a year and a half. She gave Archer the number she had for him, and Archer promised to follow up. Which he did while he waited in traffic. He was told Gus Franklin was a son of a bitch who hadn’t been around the place for a good three weeks. Archer made a mental note to track him down, and then found himself concentrating on the heat waves that rose from the ground in squiggles that distorted everything.
He hated this heat because wherever Josie was it wasn’t going to be refrigerated. If Josie was dead the temperature would exacerbate decomposition and ruin evidence, and if she was alive the heat wouldn’t help her chance for survival. He was grateful when the traffic started to move. Sitting made him sick with fear, when he was moving he was able to convince himself he was making progress. Once the bottleneck broke up, he had made it to Hermosa in record time. Liz took a few minutes longer.
Now they were at The Underground Restaurant and the waitress had deposited two sodas and some fries they really shouldn’t have ordered. Liz had to get back to work before Hagarty found out what she was up to, and Archer had no real appetite. All he wanted to be fed was information.
“Okay. The Blue Fin.” Liz leaned over the high table so that she could keep her voice low. The Underground wasn’t a favorite with Hermosa PD, but you never knew who might be around. “You know there are no cameras at the Blue Fin, but one of the servers saw Josie yesterday. He was early for work and stopped to have a cigarette. He knows some of the people who own the boats down below the parking lot and likes to check out the tourists. He was just hanging out and he sees Josie driving in and parking. Josie takes the stairs and comes out on the lower level. He didn’t know who she was but noticed her because of her height. She went directly to Quality Seafood.”
“Josie wouldn’t eat there,” Archer said.
“She checked her watch, my guy says it was obvious she was waiting. A Hispanic guy comes up to her. He’s got two cups and gives her one. He sits down and they talk. My witness says it looked serious but not threatening.”
“How long did your guy watch?”
“Two cigarettes. I showed him a picture of Hernandez. It wasn’t real clear, but he says it could have been him. Then he goes to work.”
“And?”
“I go down to Quality Seafood. One of the fishmongers down there saw them, too. The Hispanic guy was helping Josie around the dock area and toward the parking structure. The guy who works at Quality Seafood took note because Josie wasn’t steady on her feet. That witness was worried she had some bad fish, but he realized that it wouldn’t happen that fast and the man hadn’t bought fish. He only bought drinks.”
“Josie was drugged. It had to be. Nobody could have blindsided her in daylight if she hadn’t been. Damn it.” Archer’s hands fisted and one hit the tabletop hard enough for the few patrons to look. He didn’t care. Liz put her hand over his.
“Later, buddy,” Liz warned. “Here’s the rest. The fishmonger follows around just to make sure everything’s good. The man is standing in front of the back passenger door that’s open. He looks like he’s helping Josie in. But there’s someone else leaning through the other side. My witness figures a Good Samaritan is helping. No word on the guy leaning into the car except that he was wearing some kind of shiny blue and white shirt. My guy goes back to work, and that’s all I got.
“It’s all good, Liz. At least we know the how; I don’t give a shit about the why. Now we’ve got to find out where Hernandez took her. And when we find her, when I know she’s okay, we won’t have to worry about another trial for Hernandez.”
“I gotta go. Don’t do anything stupid.” Liz slid off the high stool. “I’m going to ask the captain to talk to the city council about putting cameras in the well. Three flights of stairs and no way to tell what’s going down there. It’s just crazy. People around here don’t think anything bad can ever happen to them.”
“Can you track down whoever caught the Gardener thing and see if LAPD is acting on it?” Archer asked.
“Sure.” Liz said, knowing it would be dicey going back and forth with Los Angeles, but she had always wanted to be part of something big. Now that she was, Liz had no intention of stepping aside. She was about to share a few more ideas with Archer when his phone rang.
“Sorry.” He gave it a glance then answered it.
“Archer?” It was Hannah. “I need you to come over.”
“Not now,” Archer said, knowing she was the last thing he needed to worry about. But Hannah was putting herself at the head of the line.
“No, now.” Hannah said evenly. “I need you to come to Josie’s house now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
Josie Bates’ House, Hermosa Beach
Archer’s first thought when the door opened was that Hannah looked weird, like she was surrounded by a body halo. It was only a trick of the light combined with the architecture in Josie’s home. From above the late afternoon sun shone through the skylight Josie had installed a few months earlier. Hannah wore some sparkly thing that hung off her shoulders and draped to the side of her breasts, ending in an uneven hem below her hips. Beneath that was a copper and gold tube top. Backlit as she was, the light bounced off the sparkles of her clothes and filtered through the curls and frizz of her long black hair, transforming her from petulant teenager to multi-cultural Madonna.