Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(17)

“Tomorrow?”

“Mom only found out about it yesterday.”

“Tomorrow.”

Lucy Chenier was a meticulous Attorney and thorough planner. She was not a spur-of-the-moment person.

“Mom wants to see the dorm and meet the administrator. You know Mom. Can we stay with you?”

“You know it, buddy. What a great surprise.”

“This is so cool. Here’s Mom.”

Lucy took the phone.

“He’s very excited.”

“And you’ll stay here.”

“I thought we would. If you don’t mind.”

After Lucy moved back to Louisiana, things between us were strained, but we remained close. I flew down once or twice a year to see them, and sometimes Lucy and Ben would come to L.A. When they came to L.A., Lucy would let Ben stay with me, but she would not. Too awkward, I guess. Too uncomfortable.

“I don’t mind.”

“It’s such short notice and you have a life.”

“I’m surprised is all.”

“I know. I understand.”

“But I have to warn you, I’m on a job. I won’t be around much during the day.”

“We could stay at a hotel.”

If she wanted to stay in a hotel, she would have booked a room.

“Only, you want to stay here.”

She paused.

“Ben loves you.”

“What’s going on, Luce?”

“We’ll talk tomorrow. Is it okay if we talk tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“Elvis?”

“Yes?”

I thought she wanted to say more, but maybe this was only me wanting to hear more.

She said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I put aside the phone and walked into the kitchen. I drank a glass of tap water. I washed the glass and put it in the drain. The cat was gone. I wondered what he was doing and hoped he was safe. If I had gotten him as a kitten I would’ve raised him as an inside cat and never installed his door. But he showed up full-grown one day and he’d been with me ever since. I worried, but I couldn’t bring myself to trap him inside and make him a prisoner, so I’d put in his door. The house felt empty without him.

I returned to the living room, stretched out on the couch, and stared up at the A-frame’s peaked ceiling high overhead. Shadows lived at the peak even though the room was filled with light. I held up my right hand, flexed it, and studied the front. A thick scar etched a line across the four fingers. The scar was an angry violet color for a long time, but it had paled to a grayish white. Three of the fingers had required reconstructive surgeries. I was cut when a man named Mazi Ibo held a long, curved knife to Ben Chenier’s throat. I grabbed the blade to stop Ibo from cutting Ben. Ibo had been a large man and a professional soldier. I shouldn’t have been able to beat a man as large and strong as Ibo, but I beat him and killed him with the knife.

Richard Chenier had hired Ibo and two other men to kidnap Ben so Lucy would blame me and Richard could look like a hero when he recovered his son. This was Richard’s plan, but his plan went sideways and terrible. The men Richard hired buried Ben Chenier in a box.

Richard’s own son.

Buried.

In a box.

I flexed the hand and remembered the night Joe Pike and I fought and killed three men to save Ben. My fingers ached from time to time, but I had learned to live with it.

We saved him.

We found Ben and saved him and brought him home to his mother.

I lowered my hand and stared at the darkness above.





10





Jared Walker Philburn



The twilight sky deepened to a rich bloody orange as Jared Walker Philburn made his way home. Time was short as darkness approached, so Jared picked up his pace, striding past the mansions along Los Feliz Boulevard. Jared avoided looking at the mansions. To look was to be seen, and he did not wish to be seen. Jared, who was homeless, wore grimy wool pants split at the knee, a threadbare brown jacket, and cast-off running shoes he’d found in a dumpster. His appearance drew attention in lovely neighborhoods, and Jared did not want more, especially when he was heading for home. So, head down, elbows swinging, knapsack bouncing with every step, Jared left the beautiful homes and coral trees of lower Los Feliz, and climbed into the deepening hills of Griffith Park.

Traffic leaving the park was heavy, but once Jared passed the Greek Theatre, the number of cars thinned. Most were day hikers up to enjoy the trails or families who had visited the observatory. Jared stayed well off the road to avoid the cars, and braced himself in case someone threw a bottle or can. He tried not to think about being hit by a bottle (which had happened, twice). Instead, Jared walked faster. The sooner he reached home, the sooner he would be safe, and the sooner he could enjoy the treasures in his pack.

Earlier that day, Jared had found two discarded paperback novels, an unopened bottle of Diet Coke, a small pocket mirror, and a bright blue spiral notebook. With money earned collecting recyclables, he had bought toothpaste, a disposable razor, two rolls of toilet paper, and a machaca burrito. But most exciting of all, near the end of his day, Jared had stopped at a small Italian restaurant near the park and offered to sweep their parking area. The sous-chef, a burly woman with enormous tattooed forearms, sent Jared away with a white paper bag containing takeout containers of bread and food. Jared’s mouth had been watering ever since. He was anxious to get home, where, in the safety that came with quiet solitude, he could enjoy the chef’s generosity.