___________________________
Ironically, the Glenn Frey song
The Heat Is On
was warbling from the car stereo as he drove the nondescript van through the sleepy neighborhood, at a crawl.
He’d moved the beat-up Chrysler into the deep shadow round back of the convenience store before transferring comb-over’s dead-weight body into the rented vehicle. Wedged him in tight in the cargo space, in among the jerry cans brimming with gasoline. Then he’d driven southwest on Route 66 to the Pacific Ocean, soft rock hardening his ears.
Comb-over had been a naughty boy.
He had to be taught a lasting lesson.
Play with fire and you risk burning fingers.
The fast-acting paralytic was keeping up its end of the bargain. Comb-over was tranquilized, unable to move anything but his diaphragm, and maybe his eyelids – at a push.
He didn’t have to die right now. Not just yet.
He could watch and learn.
Brake lights shone briefly as he reached his destination.
He killed the engine. The music died.
Silence and darkness – two of his favorite things.
He reached for the Zippo lighter on the dash. Flicked it open with his blunt thumb and watched the flame leap high.
The heat was on and bridges had to be burned.
___________________________
Contrasts.
My life, in a nutshell.
The eternal struggle between good and evil.
Was it possible to be deliriously happy and dangerously bitter, both at the same time?
I borrowed Tim’s Indian Chieftain motorcycle and set out for the address Rae had given me over the phone. I hadn’t ridden a motorbike in a very long time – not since Hope and I had been young and childless – and I wasn’t sure I could pull it off. But the Chieftain fit like a glove and did most of the work without complaint.
“You sure you don’t mind?” I’d asked Tim as he’d wheeled his prized possession out of my garage and given me a quick guided tour of the controls.
“Sure, but I owe you. Just do me a favor and bring her back in one piece. This baby is my dream machine.”
And so I drove through the night, propelled by burgeoning love and yet pulled back by it too. A dichotomy of emotions tearing me in two. Right now, I didn’t want to be anywhere else other than in Rae’s arms. Right now, I didn’t want to be anywhere else other than chasing down the murderer of my son.
Opposing forces.
Two halves pulling in opposite directions.
Ultimately, something would snap.
Maybe me.
I gunned the engine and leaned into the ramp as it curved through the Harbor Freeway interchange. Floored it as the pavement leveled out. Not much traffic on I-10 westbound. I pressed the speedometer into the triple figures. Made long, sinuous ins-and-outs around the occasional slower vehicle. Wind in my hair. Vibrations purring. The sense of sheer speed and freedom, intoxicating.
I thought about my insane son and about how far he’d fallen from grace. Hurt flared in my heart and I almost lost control of the bike.
Dammit!
I couldn’t deny I’d played my part in his downfall.
I saw that now.
Therapy had rinsed the silt from my eyes.
I hadn’t just ignored his condition, I’d run away from it – like I’d done all my life. Running genes ran in the Quinn family. According to George, I’d always put my work ahead of him, and he was right. Sometimes we have no choice. Deliberately, I’d buried myself in my work, aiming for one promotion after another. Out of the house more than in it. I’d let Hope deal – perhaps because she’d been better at it than me – never once stopping to think that I’d given her no choice. I’d always believed that when it came to ailing children, mothers coped better than fathers. Lame excuse. My absence had alienated my son and hammered a wedge between his mother and me. While I had turned a blind eye to their emotional needs, George had cleaved to his momma. I’d grown apart from them both. Hadn’t seen it coming.
A gap had opened up and the emotional vacuum had sucked Rae in.
Although I had never forgiven myself for the affair, I’d never once regretted it. Did that make me a bad person, or a human with needs?
In spite of his condition, George had grown into a family man in his own right. He’d held down a job, won the love of a good woman, and even fathered my grandson. I’d been a proud Pop. But he’d harbored a grudge. Always had. He’d kept me on the periphery of his life. Then, to cap it off, I’d gone on to kill his momma. Maybe not by my own hands, but Hope’s blood was on them, nonetheless. My Celebrity Cop moniker had attracted all the waifs and strays. One such psychopath had decided to play dirty. No better way to derail my train of thought than by killing my wife. It was the final straw. George had never forgiven me. Then, again, nor had I.
I saw flashing lights in the bike’s side mirror, and automatically eased off the gas. Dropped back to the speed limit.
I thought about Rae and about where we were headed. I was still in a daze with it all. I kept pinching myself and expecting to wake. Unquestionably, being with Rae felt good. I couldn’t deny it felt right. Look what I was doing! Rae’s coming back into my life seemed too good to be true. I was hoping it wasn’t.
There was something magical between us.
Libby Rae Burnett meant everything to me.
I was addicted.
Maybe it had always been the case.
Denial was my forte, right?
The last thing I wanted was for our rekindled relationship to move too quickly, to burn itself out before the kindling had caught. I wanted to be with her in every sense of the word and wasn’t afraid to admit it. I knew she felt the same way. We were like hormonal kids: we just wanted to spend every waking moment in each other’s company, and to hell with everything else.
But everything else was the reason we were together.
A police cruiser shot past, doing eighty, easy, chased by red-and-blue specters sweeping along the retainer walls.
In short, the last two years of my life had been nothing less than a catastrophe. I didn’t believe in beating a woe-is-me drum. But with Rae entering the picture I’d had a glimpse of something better. When you’re on the floor the only way is up. I had to at least aim for happiness. I knew Rae could make me happy again. She’d already made me feel good, in spite of all the bad. Didn’t everyone deserve a little peace once in a while?
I spied more emergency lights flashing in the mirror. Heard the high-pitched wail of multiple sirens. A second later, another police cruiser screamed by, followed by two more, both sides of the Chieftain.
They tore away into the night and darkness enveloped.
My thoughts turned to Snakeskin and to the YouTube videos showing his gruesome handiwork for all the world to see. I shuddered at the thought of meeting with such a grisly end. I was in no doubt Cornsilk was behind the killing; it had his name written all over it. But why? And who was the guy in the Santa suit? There were far easier ways to get my attention, if that had been his aim – unless it was all about the show. Was that it? Had Snakeskin wanted a public spectacle, an exhibition of his madness just to make me sit up and take notice? In his warped mind I knew I was his number one enemy. What I didn’t know was if Cornsilk had learned of my incarceration at Springfield and gone solely after my son instead. If so, why kill someone in broad daylight on Hollywood Boulevard? What was I missing?
More than a dozen hours had passed since Snakeskin had dropped off the radar in Anchorage. Bumming rides or busing it he could be anywhere in the Pacific Northwest. Farther afield if he’d travelled by air. No chance of tracking him until he started a paper trail. But he would turn up – of that I knew. Snakeskin was on a mission to avenge those he blamed for spoiling his good looks. If I didn’t catch up with him first, I knew sooner or later he’d come looking for me.
I spotted the end of the freeway coming up, fast. Eased off the gas as the Chieftain thundered through the McClure Tunnel, then powered it up again as it emerged onto the Pacific Coast Highway.
A salty breeze blew through my hair.
Rae’s address resolved to a quiet lane that coiled around a cliff top in Pacific Palisades. Last house on the left, she’d said. It was an upmarket neighborhood of multi-million-dollar homes overlooking the Santa Monica Bay. About six zeroes above my pay grade. She’d insisted it was a fixer-upper, an inheritance, but I couldn’t help wonder how Rae could afford its upkeep on her paltry Bureau salary.
I took the right at West Channel and accelerated up the incline with the dark Pacific unfolding behind me. The Chieftain chewed up the road. I leaned into the left curve. Realized I actually liked motorcycling. Braked and made the next left onto Corona. Almost there. Butterflies performing aerobatics in my belly. I screwed a little more juice out of the throttle and leaned into the long right curve. Top of the cliff now. Impressive views of the night-washed ocean opening up. A tree-lined lane with big houses owning exclusive views.
Up ahead I could see a police cruiser parked lengthways across the road, barring passage, its roof lights splashing Christmas colors across the roadway.
I slowed, shifting down gears. The Chieftain’s hot engine popped and clacked.
Beyond the black-and-white I could see more flashing lights belonging to several police cars parked higgledy-piggledy on the street. Farther still, a pair of blood-red fire trucks from the Santa Monica FD with their neon blue turret lights illuminating nearby houses. I slowed the bike to a crawl. There were people out on their front walks, I saw. Dressed in housecoats and slippers. Some gathered on the sidewalk, holding concerned conversations. Cops keeping them back. Emergency personnel moving efficiently between the emergency vehicles. Firefighters unreeling long hoses and hooking them up to curbside hydrants. Through the shadowy trees I could see intense flames licking at the sky. Bright as molten gold. A house ablaze, with a churning column of black smoke reaching for the stars.
The cop manning the makeshift roadblock flapped a hand and I brought the Chieftain to a stop against the curb. Pulled off the goggles.
“What’s going on, officer?”
“House fire,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Looks like it’s got a good hold. Road’s going to be closed for quite a while. You’ll want to back up and go down Altata.”
I could smell the burn. Feel the heat of it on the sea breeze, even from this distance. Be in no doubt – house fires are deathtraps. Especially those with a timber construction. Once the flames take hold, anyone unlucky enough to be inside is likely to remain that way.
I glanced up and down the street, trying to make out the big houses hidden behind the sidewalk trees.
“You live here?” the cop asked conversationally.
I knew what he was thinking: middle of the night, some bearded middle-aged guy in a lumberjack shirt and an
I Heart Kodiak
tee, sizing up the lay of the land.
“Just visiting,” I said. “As a matter of fact my partner lives here.”
There. I said it. It was official.
“You got some ID I can see, buddy?”
I sighed and brought out my FBI badge.
He squinted at it. “Oh, okay, Special Agent Quinn. Give me one second and I’ll see about expediting your passage through here. Which is your partner’s house is it again?”
“Last one on the left.”
I saw the cop’s face pale. “Last house? You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“Then you’ve got yourself a serious problem, agent, because that’s where the fire is and no one has come out of there alive.”