Authors: Lee Goldberg
The gunshots were still echoing in Marty’s ears as he struggled to his feet, the wound in his side oozing blood again. At least that was the only place he was bleeding. Clara ran to him crying and hugged him as tightly as she could. He wanted to cry too, only with frustration at the malevolent God that was tormenting him.
A tiger? You attacked me with a fucking tiger? Haven’t I been through enough already?
Clearly the answer was no. Fate wasn’t through with Martin Slack yet. At this point, Marty wouldn’t be surprised if he stepped on his front lawn and sank in quicksand.
Buck came up behind them, still holding his gun.
“Thank you, Buck,” Marty could feel Clara’s little heart pounding.
“That’s what the gun is for. Let’s get moving. I don’t want to be here if Tony the Tiger comes back for his sugar flakes.”
Marty straightened up, wincing in pain. His blood had gotten on Clara, but if she noticed, she didn’t care. She looked up at him, still trembling, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I want my mommy.”
“I want mine, too.” Marty held his hand out to Clara. “You were very brave, Clara. Can you be brave for me for a little while longer?”
She sniffled and took his hand. Marty gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze and they started walking, giving the dead dog a wide berth. They also kept a watchful eye out in case the tiger returned or a swarm of locusts happened to show up or a freak tornado touched down. Marty was ready for anything now.
“That was a big tiger,” Clara said, relieved and a bit proud of herself.
“Yes it was,” Marty said, feeling exactly the same way. This was an adventure they’d shared and survived, learning something about each other at the same time. The girl was tough; he knew that now. Clara stood up to the tiger without making a sound. He was certain she’d survive the loss of her mother and emerge stronger from the ordeal.
And Clara, for her part, knew that this stranger could be trusted, that he would protect her and comfort her as her own mother would.
They soon came to the sprawling shopping center that was the town square of Calabasas. People were bathing in the artificial pond on the corner, underneath the cracked, synthetic boulders of the fake, non-functioning waterfall and the sign advertising the center. Behind them, the giant Rolex had fallen and smashed into the parking lot.
When they rebuild this place, Marty thought, they should consider a Timex instead. It takes a licking and keeps on ticking, and it’s probably a lot cheaper.
Marty, Clara, and Buck followed the street that sloped behind the center and rose into the hills, leading them finally to the red tiled guard house and iron gates of Oakridge Hills Estates.
If this had been a movie, Beth would have been waiting for him at the gates, crying with happiness. But it wasn’t, and neither was she. It was too dark, and there were too many trees shrouding the steep hill, for Marty to see how badly hit the community was and to anticipate the odds of Beth being alive beyond those gates.
He would soon know, one way or the other.
There was a man standing behind the gate watching them approach. His hands were on his hips, right above the holstered gun clipped to the braided leather belt of his Ralph Lauren chinos. He wore the weapon like a man proud of his erection. He’d obviously been waiting all his life for a chance to strut around with it and he was going to enjoy every moment.
“That’s close enough,” the man held up his hand, motioning them to halt. “State your business.”
“My business?” Marty asked incredulously, letting go of Clara’s hand as he hobbled up to the gate. “I live here. Open the gate.”
“I don’t know you.”
“I don’t care. My name is Martin Slack, I live at 19067 Park Marbella and I want to go home. Now open the fucking gate.”
“Do you know him, Walter?” The man turned to look at a balding man in a polo shirt and pleated shorts who was sitting on an icebox a few yards behind him.
“Nope,” Walter replied. “Never seen him before, Bob.”
Bob turned to Marty again. “I guess that settles it.”
“Oh really?” Marty looked back at Buck. “Can you believe this guy?”
“You want me to handle this?” Buck asked.
“No, this is my home, Buck. I’ll deal with it.” Marty took another step towards the gate.
“I advise you to stay where you are,” Bob said, letting his hand hover near his holster for emphasis. “This is a private community and these are desperate times. There are a lot of people who’d like to get in here right now and take advantage of our resources. So until order is restored, these gates are staying closed.”
“I live here,” Marty had enough of Bob. He looked at the bald guy on the curb. “Hey, Walter, go get my wife. Bob can watch me.”
Walter got up, but Bob motioned him to stay. “Sit down, Walter.” The bald guy did as he was told. Bob glared at Marty. “I got a better idea. Why don’t you show me some ID?”
Yes, that was a good idea. In fact, it would have solved everything. The only trouble was, Marty didn’t have it. He left it with the Plebneys and he knew Bob wasn’t going to accept any explanations.
But Marty didn’t come all this way, and go through so much, to let Bob stop him.
“Sure,” Marty reached into his jacket for the ID he didn’t have, pulled out his gun, and aimed it right at Bob’s pudgy stomach. Bob made a lame move for his weapon.
“Go ahead, Bob, reach for your gun,” Marty said. “By the time you undo the snap on your holster, you’ll already be dead.”
Bob swallowed hard and raised his hands.
Marty glanced at the bald guy. “I thought I told you to get my wife, Walter.”
Walter nodded frantically and scrambled up the hill. Marty hoped the guy didn’t have a heart attack before he reached their house.
“Now Bob, I want you to pull that holster off your belt and slide the gun under the gate to me before I shoot you just for being a prick.”
Bob looked like he was going to cry. He hated parting with his gun, but he did as he was told, set the holstered gun on the ground, and gently kicked it under the gate. It slid to Marty’s feet.
“Pick up the gun, Buck.” Marty said.
Clara stepped forward hesitantly and reached for the gun.
“No, Clara. Don’t touch that,” Marty said. “Let Buck do it.”
“I don’t see him,” she said.
Marty looked at her, then over his shoulder. There was no one there. Buck was gone.
“Where did Buck go?” Marty asked her. She stared back at him with a blank face. “Did he say anything to you?”
Clara shook her head. “He only talks to you.”
“You’re not right in the head, buddy,” Bob said, his voice quavering. “Put the gun down before you hurt me or the little girl.”
“Shut up,” Marty looked down the barrel of his gun at Bob and became aware of the weapon in his hand for the first time.
Where did that come from?
With a trembling hand, he lifted his jacket and looked under his arm.
He was wearing a holster.
Which meant …
Marty quickly closed his jacket and checked his shoulder.
The gunshot wound wasn’t there anymore.
Which meant . .
.
He recognized the gun now. It belonged to Heller. It was a prop from the show he was visiting when the quake struck. Marty had the gun all along. And it was full of blanks.
Which meant …
Which meant all those times Buck was pitching himself as a series, talking about what a well-developed character he was, Marty was selling to himself.
Buck was already a character. A totally fictional one.
Buck did not exist. He never did.
“Oh my God,” Marty muttered to himself, falling to his knees and closing his eyes, letting the gun fall to the ground.
No wonder Buck sounded just like that voice in his head. Buck was that voice in his head.
That Red Cross nurse was right, Marty thought, he did take a severe blow to the head. He’d been hallucinating for days.
His conscious mind tried to warn him, over and over again. Buck was one-dimensional. Buck’s actions were clichés. It was impossible for Buck to survive the flood; it was an extraordinary contrivance that Buck found him impaled on that spike.
Why didn’t he see that before? Why couldn’t he accept it?
Because I needed Buck.
Without Buck pushing him, challenging him, forcing him to examine himself, he never would have survived. Marty had come to that realization long ago. Buck was there for Marty when he needed him and was gone when he didn’t.
I’ve gone totally, completely insane, he thought. Maybe all of this is in my mind. I’m not even here. Maybe I’m still under my car, buried beneath a pile of bricks.
He was afraid to open his eyes. He didn’t want to know the truth.
“Marty, oh my God, Marty.”
It was Beth’s voice. But was it real or, like Buck, a figment of his imagination?
He felt her arms around him, her tears on his cheek. “Please, Marty. Say something, are you all right?”
Slowly he lifted his head and opened his eyes.
Beth was on her knees in front of him, her lovely face, her adorable band of freckles, exactly as they were when he left her two days ago.
“I am now,” he said.
She hugged him hard and he hugged her. They whispered, “I love you” again and again to each other. He would tell her all about his adventures and someday he might even tell her about Buck. Or maybe he’d just write about it instead.
Over her shoulder, he saw Clara standing there, a sad, lost look on her face. Marty gently pulled away from Beth. “Honey, I want you to meet Clara.”
Beth turned, wiping the tears from her eyes, and looked at the girl for the first time. Maybe Beth saw the blue eyes and the freckles and also saw herself. Or maybe she just saw a frightened child.
“She’s alone now,” Marty said.
Beth reached out her arm to Clara. “No, she isn’t.”
Clara ran over and joined their hug.
Martin Slack was finally home.
A
lthough I’ve lived in Los Angeles for over twenty years, survived the Northridge quake and the destruction of my home, and walked the route Marty traveled, I still referred to many books to add reality to my fantasy.
In particular, I am indebted to authors David Ritchie (
Superquake: Why Earthquakes Occur, and when the Big One Will Hit Southern California
), Mike Davis (
City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles
, and
Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster
), Philip L. Fradkin (
Magnitude 8: Earthquakes and Life along the San Andreas Fault
), David Gebhard and Robert Winter (
Los Angeles: An Architectural Guide
), and Leonard Pitt and Dale Pitt (
Los Angeles: Encyclopedia of the City and County
) for their excellent studies and reference works.
All of the mistakes, geographical liberties, and scientific fudging are entirely my own.
Lee Goldberg
W
riter/producer Lee Goldberg is a two-time Edgar Award nominee whose many TV credits include
Martial Law
,
Diagnosis Murder
,
Spenser: For Hire
,
Hunter Nero Wolfe
, and
Monk.
He’s also the author of
My Gun Has Bullets
,
Beyond the Beyond
,
Man with the Iron-On Badge
,
Successful Television Writing
and the bestselling
Diagnosis Murder
and
Monk
series of original mystery novels.
The Man with the Iron-On Badge
Diagnosis Murder #8: The Last Word
Mr. Monk Goes to the Fire House
Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants
Unsold TV Pilots: The Greatest Shows You Never Saw
Tied In: The Business, History and Craft of Media Tie-in Writing
Free Preview of “The List” by J.A. Konrath
“I found the head.”
Tom Mankowski, Chicago Homicide Detective Second Class, pushed the chair aside and squinted into the darkness under the desk. The two uniforms who were first on the scene flanked him.
“Light.”
The patrolman to his left flicked on his Maglite, letting the beam play across the head’s slack and pale features. Tom righted his lanky frame and turned his attention back to the lounger on the other side of the apartment. The body was bound to the chair with duct tape, torso leaning slightly forward, blood still trickling from the neck stump. All of the fingers on its left hand were severed.
Ugly way to die.
Tom’s hazel eyes tracked the carpet in a line from the lounger to the desk. There was a blood trail, and an odd one at that. He had been expecting a pattern of drops indicating the head had been carried. Instead there was a repeating arc pattern.