“Yes. Exactly.”
“But you are here now, claiming to be God.”
“Like I said, one man’s miracle—”
“Is another man’s reality,” I finished.
We were silent some more. I looked in his half-empty cup. It was still coffee.
Jack closed his eyes, seemed to have fallen asleep, but he did this often, going to wherever God goes.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Very.”
“I’m going to hurt a man,” I said.
“Do what you must.”
“Really?”
“I do not define for you what is right or wrong.”
“Au contraire,” I said. “There’s a whole book out there that defines exactly what we should do.”
“Was that French?” he asked.
“Oh shut up,” I said. “Wait, did I just tell God to shut up?”
“Yes. Would you like for me to shut up?”
“No.”
“Remember, I will not tell you how to lead your life, nor will I tell you what decisions to make, or who or what defines you. These are your choices. Your gifts. The book or books of which you refer, were often inspired by me, but only the parts about love.”
“Love?”
“As in do all things with love.”
“All things?”
“Yes,” he said. “This concept alone would change much of the structure of your planet.”
“There are those who can’t love, or choose not to love.”
“There are those,” said Jack, “who are an unfortunate byproduct of your current state of non-loving.”
“You do realize we are in a McDonald’s?”
“Yes.”
“Am I going crazy?” I asked.
“That is for you to decide.”
“So you really do not care if I hurt another human being?”
“Do you derive pleasure from hurting others, Jim?”
“No. I will be hurting another to protect many more.”
“Are you living and acting and behaving within your own moral standards?”
“Yes.”
“Is this what defines who you are?”
“Yes.”
“And so you are being true to yourself?”
“I guess so, yes.”
“I can find no fault in that.”
“So you approve?” I asked.
“I approve of defining who you are, Jim. There is a difference. And there are many, many people out there who do not have a strict moral code, such as your own.”
“So any moral code would work?”
“Any true moral code, Jim,” said Jack. “Any true code.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Sanchez and I waited in Sanchez’s unmarked police vehicle in a red zone across the street from the offices of Assemblyman Richard Peterson.
“His name has a nice ring to it,” said Sanchez.
We were in the city of Brea, in a shopping zone that called itself Downtown Brea. The stores were all new, and there was not one but two movie theaters. The apartments above the stores were advertised as artists’ lofts. Once, long ago, I wanted to be an artist, until I realized I wasn’t good enough and didn’t have enough patience.
“There are two ice cream shops,” said Sanchez. “I wonder why.”
“They are across the street from each other,” I said. “Downtown Brea is all about convenience.”
“If you say so.”
“There’s our man.”
It was past 6:30 p.m. and Richard Peterson was just leaving the office. He was leaving with a rather pretty blond in a short red dress. She split one way, walking to a nearby restaurant bar, and blew him a little kiss.
“Maybe she’s the secretary,” I said.
“Bet she takes great dictation.”
Peterson crossed the street purposefully, and headed to the parking structure to our right. We watched him ascend the stairs.
“Takes the stairs. Keeps in shape,” said Sanchez. “You think you can handle him?”
“As long as he doesn’t take them two at a time.”
We waited at the mouth of the structure’s exit, and sure enough a black Escalade with Peterson at the helm came tearing through the structure, heedless of babies or speed bumps.
“I could give him a ticket for reckless driving,” said Sanchez.
“For now just follow him.”
Sanchez did, pulling in behind him. Peterson drove like a man drunk or on drugs, weaving carelessly in and out of traffic.
“At least he uses his blinker,” I said.
“Considerate. Where do you want this to go down?”
We were on a street called Brea Blvd. The street was wide and quiet.
“This is good,” I said.
Sanchez, hidden behind his cop glasses, reached under his seat and pulled out a flashing light with a magnetized bottom. He put it on top of his vehicle. I saw Peterson jerk his head up and look in the rearview mirror a couple of times. Finally he yanked the Escalade off to the side of the road. Sanchez pulled in behind him.
I said, “You don’t have to do this. He’s my problem. You could get into a lot of trouble.”
“Justice is justice, Knighthorse. Sometimes street justice can be more effective.”
“And less paperwork.”
“And less paperwork,” said Sanchez. “Wait here.”
Chapter Thirty-five
I watched from the passenger seat. Sanchez spoke with Peterson through the open window. A moment later I heard a lot of shouting, saw a lot of gesticulating, then the Escalade door burst open and Peterson came charging out. He waggled a finger in Sanchez’s face. From here, his finger looked like a worm on a hook.
Sanchez said something and Peterson reluctantly turned and put both hands on the SUV’s hood.
I watched intently.
Sanchez was an old pro. He kicked Peterson’s feet apart and patted him down. Peterson said something over his shoulder and Sanchez pushed him hard against the fender. I heard the thump from here. Peterson’s sunglasses fell from his face.
Sanchez removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt, twisted Peterson’s arm back, then cuffed the assemblyman’s wrist. The whole cuffing process took less than three seconds, faster than Peterson could react. Once he realized what had happened, he swung around violently. Sanchez stepped back, removed his gun and pointed it at Peterson’s chest.
Peterson backed off, breathing hard. Sanchez walked him back to the vehicle.
And just like that we kidnapped Mr. Richard Peterson, Orange County Assemblyman, wife beater and child molester.
***
He shoved Peterson in the backseat. I took off my shades and turned around.
“Hi, Dick,” I said. “Dick is an acceptable variant of Richard, am I correct?”
Recognition dawned on Peterson’s red and sweaty face. His eyes narrowed and his pupils shrank. “It’s you. The detective. What the fuck is going on?”
I turned to Sanchez. “Do you want me to quiet him up for the ride out?”
“Go ahead, I’m tired of hearing him already.”
I stepped out of the front seat, opened the back door, and punched Peterson as hard as I could. Even from my awkward angle, the blow was still a good one and caught him sharply across the temple, snapping his head around.
Dazed, he didn’t go unconscious, but it sure shut him up.
I turned and headed toward the Escalade.
“Follow me,” I said to Sanchez.
***
I followed a street called Carbon Canyon through the city of Brea. Soon the new homes and the massive state park disappeared and we were on a winding road. The Escalade drove like a dream. Shame what was going to happen to it.
I found a dirt turn-off and hung a right. In my rearview mirror, Sanchez followed me closely, although he didn’t use his turn blinker. Damn cops. Above the law. First kidnapping, and now this.
We were now following a small creek, and whe
n we reached a point where the creek dropped off twenty feet below down a dirt embankment, I stopped the Cadillac.
Sanchez pulled up behind me with Peterson in the backseat. I put the Escalade in neutral, and stepped outside. With Sanchez’s help, we pushed the Cadillac down the dirt embankment. It ricocheted nicely off two trees, careened off a pile of boulders, and then splashed down in the middle of the creek, hissing and steaming.
The vehicle was totaled.
“Damn shame,” said Sanchez.
“Yep.”
Chapter Thirty-six
“Let him go,” I said to Sanchez.
Sanchez uncuffed Peterson. The assemblyman was still woozy from the blow to the head. His hair was ruffled and his face was red, and it looked like he might have been missing a button on his shirt. He looked from me to Sanchez, and then at his surroundings. Dawning seemed to come over him as he realized he was not in a good situation. When he spoke, there was real fear in his voice, along with much nastiness.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked.
“You are Richard Peterson, county assemblyman and respected citizen. You are also a wife beater and a child abuser who rapes his own children. Is there anything I missed?”
He looked at me briefly, then lumbered over to the creek and looked down at his Escalade. “You can’t prove any of it,” he said, still looking down. He might have considered bolting if he wasn’t still dazed.
“I’m not here to prove anything.”
“So what’s going on? You want money to keep everything quiet?”
Sanchez laughed and leaned a hip against the fender of his vehicle.
“No,” I said. “You have been tried and found guilty, Mr. Peterson. Now comes the punishment phase. I will allow you to defend yourself.”
“It’s two against one, hardly fair.”
“My compatriot is here for entertainment purposes only.”
“Compatriot?” said Sanchez.
“Yeah.”
Peterson sized me up, eyes darting quickly. Sweat was on his brow, and spreading quickly under his pits.
“You’re bigger than me.”
“I’m bigger than most.”
“Not me,” said Sanchez.
“We’re even,” I said to Sanchez. “Besides, we’ve already had this argument before, which is why I said most.”
I turned back to Peterson. He backed up. If he bolted and was fast enough I could be in trouble with my gimp leg. Sanchez pulled out his gun and pointed it at Peterson again.
“No running,” said Sanchez.
“You didn’t give your children a chance to run, did you?” I asked. “When you beat them or forced yourself on them.”
“What the fuck is going on?”
“I am here for two things: first, to convince you of the error of your ways, and second to convince you to, um, give up the error of your ways.”
“Poetic,” said Sanchez.
“Shut up, I’m making this up as I go.”
“I can tell,” said Sanchez.
I said to Peterson, “I am going to kick the royal shit out of you. You are going to have a beating unlike anything you’ve ever had in your life. You will tell the authorities you suffered your injuries in a car accident, resulting from your desire to go sightseeing. You will stick to this story or a letter written by your daughter Annette detailing your sexual tendencies toward your own children will be mailed instantly to all the local papers. Do you understand?”
He stared at me blankly, sweating. He looked like he needed a drink of water.
“And if you ever so much as lay a finger on your wife or children again, your next car accident will be your last. Are we clear?”
“Lesson learned, I swear. I mean, hell, you’ve scared the shit out of me. I’m practically peeing my pants here.”
“Practically,” I said to Sanchez. “Then I’m not doing my job.”
“Losing your touch,” said Sanchez.
“Put your gun away,” I told Sanchez.
Sanchez did and continued grinning and watching us. A squirrel ran along a tree branch overhead. We were far from Carbon Canyon Road. The air was fresh and scented with moss and soil and pine.
“I will give you a chance to fight back, which is more than you deserve.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” he said.
“That’s the spirit.”
He looked from me to Sanchez, and then took his shot, his right hand lashing out. I maneuvered myself in time to take the majority of the blow off my shoulder. I countered with something like a jab, which broke his nose.
“Fuck,” he said, holding the bleeding mess.
Next, I did what I do best. I tackled him low. It was a quick movement that combined my football and wrestling skills. He landed hard on his back, and his air whooshed from his lungs like an escaping devil.
I hauled Peterson up and walked him over to Sanchez’s car and placed his left forearm on the fender.
“You broke Annette’s arm. Twice.”
“Fuck you,” he said, holding his nose and gasping. “The bitches deserved everything they got. Fuck you and fuck them.”
I broke his arm quickly, bringing my elbow down hard on his wrist. The snap reverberated throughout the woods. Birds erupted from nearby tree branches.
Sanchez looked away.
Peterson cried out, grabbed for his arm.
But I wasn’t done with him.
No, not by a long shot.
I went to work on him, and when it was finally over, when Sanchez finally pulled me off him, my knuckles were split and bloodied and I was gasping for breath.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The MGD bottle slipped from my fingers and crashed to my cement balcony. Foam erupted among the broken glass shards.
Shit.
I considered grabbing another beer from the twenty-four pack at my feet, then decided to give it a rest for the night. Instead, I began drunkenly counting the empty glass bottles standing like sentries along the tabletop, lost count, started over, lost count again, then decided that I had drunk a shit-load of beer tonight.
I had murders, child molesters, broken arms, dead cats, suicides and death threats on my mind. And now perhaps new information about my mother. Enough to drive any man to drink. But then again I never needed much reason to drink.
Cindy was with her sister-in-law tonight, Francine. They got together once every other week and gossiped about their men, football and the nature of God in society since Francine was a religious studies instructor at Calabasas Junior College near San Diego.
That left me alone tonight. Just me and my beer.
I automatically reached down for another beer. Stopped halfway. Put my hands in my lap, and laced my fingers together.
Good boy.
The night was cool; a soft breeze swept over my balcony. Traffic was thick on PCH. I could smell exhaust and grilling hamburgers.
On its own accord, my hand reached down for another bottle. I stopped it just as it brushed a cold bottle cap.
The bone had snapped loud enough for birds to erupt in surprise.
My knuckles still ached from the beating I gave Peterson. The assemblyman’s solo vehicle accident had made the local papers. Neither I nor Sanchez were mentioned. After the beating, we had dragged Peterson’s limp body down the incline and stowed him in the driver’s seat. I placed a call via his cell phone to 911, pretending to be Peterson, gasping in pain. Hell of a performance. Sanchez was amused, although I noted he looked a little sick and pale.
A horn honked from below, along Main Street, followed by a short outburst of obscenities.
I would have killed Peterson if Sanchez hadn’t pulled me off him.
And, Lord help me, I was enjoying every minute of it.
I reached down and grabbed another beer. This time there was no stopping my hand. I twisted off the cap and drank from it. And it was good, so very, very good.
Chapter Thirty-eight
“How’s the case going?” ask
ed Cindy.
She had just sat down in front of me at the Trocadero, a Mexican place across the street from UCI. She was wearing a casual business suit, and her hair was down. She looked three years my junior, rather than the other way around. Her lipstick was bright red, which was good since I was color blind. Seriously. She wore the bright red for me.
“Other than the fact that I have no idea who killed Amanda, just swell.”
The waiter took our drink orders. An apple martini for Cindy and Coke for me.
“I called you last night,” she said. “Twice.”
“I know,” I said, “and I called you this morning when I got the messages.”
She let her unspoken question hang in the air: so why didn’t you pick up? I let it hang in the air as well. I still felt like shit from the night before. I had drunk the entire case. A new record for me.
“Are you feeling well?” she asked.
“Just great.”
“Bullshit. Your eyes are red and you look pale.” She opened her purse and removed the local edition of the Orange County Register. “Amanda Peterson’s father was in an accident. A bad accident. A broken arm. Three broken ribs. A broken collar bone. And a broken jaw. Jesus Christ, Jim.”
“Like they said, a bad accident.”
“It was no accident.”
“No,” I said, looking at her. “It wasn’t; it was a methodical beating that I gave to a son-of-a-bitch to reinforce the idea that he is to never, ever touch his family inappropriately again. The way I see it, he got off easy. His wounds will heal. The damage he inflicted may never heal.”
“Did your point hit home?” There might have been sarcasm in her voice.
“So far he’s sticking to the accident story. So he’s scared. As he should be.”
The waiter came around and took our order. Salmon for Cindy and two Super Mex chicken burritos for me, extra guacamole and sour cream.
“You’re going to kill yourself before your tryouts,” said Cindy. More sarcasm?
“I’m still about seven pounds from my target weight.”
“Isn’t there a healthier way to gain weight?”
“Is that an oxymoron?”
“I’m serious, Jim. I’m concerned about you. About us.”
She wouldn’t look me in the eye, and sipped her martini faster than normal. Her free hand played with the napkin, repeatedly wadding it and smoothing it out.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I can’t keep doing this.”
“You mean strangling your napkin?”
“No. I mean us.”