Elixir (26 page)

He falls to the purple carpet, rough fibers scraping his chin, and flees toward the window on all fours. He gropes through the triangle-patterned drapes for the lock and twists it open. He slides the glass up and wiggles his torso through. The cold air hits the top half of his body, feels good, feels like freedom. The bottom half of him, still inside, burns as Dante clenches his bad ankle. Sean screams. The man jerks his leg, Sean’s ribs banging against the window casing as he’s ripped from the briskness of freedom, chest plummeting back to the coarse rug,
Easy Rider
sunglasses snapping off his collar.

Dante flips and mounts him, Sean getting a flash of those devilish eyes before getting slugged in the jaw, his vision going black for a few seconds, taste of salt in his mouth. Groaning, he tries to break free to no avail. Dante hits him again, Sean choking on saltiness, a crimson stream pouring down his chin. Turning his head, he spits dense, red saliva on the floor.

“What the hell is all this fuss about?” a concerned voice asks outside the door. Dante spins around, spotting an older fellow in a bathrobe in the hallway. He clasps a handful of leather from Sean’s jacket, hoisting him to his feet, and lugs him toward the door. The motel guest in the hall steps aside, view on the scene, the bolt cutters by the bed, the severed chain lock, the blood on the rug. He goes from mad to scared as he retreats to room seven, slamming it shut.

Dante hauls Sean past the nature paintings and shoulders open the backdoor. The boy’s sore body flops as it gets heaved along the parking lot, blood cascading from his mouth in three streams all over his shirt.

As they pass the pool a police siren rings in the distance, stillness of the country sky interrupted by a colorful, whirling flash. With a hard yank on Sean’s arm Dante picks up his pace. Shrill sound intensifying, he rummages around in his pocket for his keys, unlocks the backdoor, and shoves Sean in. He dives in the front seat and starts the engine with a rushed hand. As he sticks the car in drive a Suddsfield police cruiser skids to a halt in front of the only exit.

A baby-faced cop, no more than twenty-five, storms out with a Ruger pistol in front of him. “Freeze right there,” he says, tone stern but also excited as if he doesn’t get to pull his weapon often in this town. “Come out with your hands up.”

A second police cruiser barrels over and another officer, forties, rushes into the lot with the same model gun. The younger approaches the driver’s door, the older the passenger’s. The junior cop stares into the tinted window, himself and his police lights the only things he can see in the black glass. In about a half-minute the sedan’s driver-side door cracks, Dante getting out, hands raised. His expression isn’t one of defeat, rather, inconvenience.

The professor sleeps next to Aliza in bed, his snoring the only sound in their house, round belly puffing up and down under three layers of covers. A couple bangs at the front door jolt him awake, his right eye opening, then left. He blinks a few times, then peeks at the digital alarm clock on his wife’s side of the bed. 2:19 AM.

He swings his feet off the mattress and slides them into his Sharper Image slippers. He grabs his robe, ties it around his tank top and boxer shorts, and heads into the hallway, trying not to disturb Aliza.

He walks down the stairs, terrycloth belt bobbing, and turns into the foyer. Opening the door, he notices two officers from the Pasadena Police Department, a man and woman, the man appearing tired from a long night patrolling, the woman with an alert stare as if her shift just started. “Yes?” the professor asks, perplexed by their presence.

“Is this the home of Steven Merzberg?” the policeman asks.

“That’s me. What’s this about?”

“Did you rent a Ford Explorer from LAX Airport a few days ago?” It’s quiet for a bit, the porch’s motion-sensor light shimmering on the municipal building etched into the cop’s badge.

“You’re coming here at this hour because I put the car in my name? Do you know what time it is?”

“So you did rent it?”

“This is absurd.” He adjusts the front flap of his robe, concealing a patch of exposed chest skin.

“Who was driving it earlier this evening?”

“A friend of the family. He was too young to rent a car so I did it for him in my name. I’m sorry. I’ll discuss it with you folks tomorrow if you wouldn’t mind.” He grips the wooden door edge. “Please let me go back to bed.”

“That’s not why we’re here sir.”

“I’m not following.”

“The vehicle was wrecked tonight.”

“Wrecked? When?” His expression morphs from annoyance to concern.

“Probably six hours ago now.”

“Where?”

“By the movie theater. The multiplex off Wellmont. No sign of the driver. Which is the purpose of our visit.”

“Lord. What happened?”

“We’re not sure. It being New Year’s, our hunch was that the driver was under the influence, crashed, and fled the scene.” He silences a grainy voice from the walkie-talkie on his waist. “Again, just a hunch. We have no proof of that. But statistically...on the holiday...tends to be the case in more instances than not. We were hoping you could help paint a clearer picture for us.”

The professor thinks. “The last thing on his mind tonight was celebrating. He was on his way to the airport...to do something very important to him. He needed to get to San Francisco.”

“I doubt he made it,” the female officer says. The professor looks down at his slippers in a trance, his anxiety kicking in. “Do you have any idea where he might be now?”

“He was supposed to call me when he landed. He didn’t earlier. He may have when I went to sleep. Wait here. I’ll check.” With speed in his step he crosses the foyer into the living room and grabs his phone from the coffee table. He notices a voicemail and missed call from a number in the San Luis Obispo area. Returning to the cops, he says in a hopeful tone, “I have a message. This could be him.”

He hits play and holds the speaker to his ear, officers trying to gauge his reaction as he listens. The sound of Sean’s distressed voice makes his stomach sink. He does a good job keeping a straight face, heeding the boy’s demand not to involve the police.

“Well?” she asks.

Lowering the phone, he tries to appear calm. “He made it to San Francisco. He didn’t mention anything about the SUV. Maybe there was a mix-up with the rental reservations? It could be a different Explorer.”

“We triple-check things like that, sir,” the patrolman says, a bit insulted by the accusation. “Especially at this time of night.”

“I wish I had more for you.”

They watch him for a while, his unrevealing demeanor still intact except for his eyes, a hint of nervous energy in them. “Okay then,” the patrolman says, skeptical. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch as we gather more details.”

“Anything you need.” He forces a grin, his pair of dimples flashing. “You know where I live. Happy New Year.” They wander out of the porch-light beam toward their squad car, the professor closing the door behind. Smile faded, he dashes into the den, his left slipper popping off along the way, and flips open his laptop. He Googles “California Gold Inn San Luis Obispo” and selects the top result, a directory of motels in the state’s central region. Scrolling through the list, he spots the one he needs, reads the number, and pounds the digits on his phone with shaky fingers.

“I need to speak to a guest urgently,” he says into it. “Room eight. Please connect me.” He listens for a while, rubbing his bald head. “Is that so?” He taps his left fist on his knee. “The police?” His heartbeat picks up. “Do you have the address of the station?” He hustles into the dark kitchen with the phone, groping around in a drawer until he finds a pen. “Okay.” He scribbles on his palm as the information gets recited on the other line. “Thank you.” He hangs up.

He runs up to his room, old staircase creaking with his clunky steps. Night-table lamp on, an awoken Aliza gazes at him from bed, eyes half-open, red hair messy. “What’s the commotion hon?”

“It’s Sean. He’s in trouble.”

“What happened?”

He wiggles out of his robe and throws open the sliding closet door. “I can’t explain now.”

“What’re you doing?”

He slips into a pair of jeans and tennis sneakers. “I have to head up north.”

“It’s two thirty in the morning.”

He zips a windbreaker over his tank top. “I’ll call you from the road.”

“Where’re you going?”

“I love you.” He scurries out.

“Hon?”

Eyes closed, Sean is slumped on a cold metal bench in a shadowy Suddsfield jail cell, a black semicircle on his swollen right cheek from getting socked in the motel earlier. The authorities are now involved, something he dreaded, a crippling delay. Those metal marbles of thought are clanging around in his skull, Natasha in a hospital bed wondering where he is, her body getting weaker by the minute, no chance for a goodbye before she’s gone.

Dante is in a cell to his right, a stream of dry blood running from the wound on his temple to his neck. An old drunk brought in on public intoxication is passed out in a cage to Sean’s left.

A ten-foot hallway separates the holding area from the one-room police station, both of the detaining officers inside alone, an American flag in the corner, framed photos of the department softball team on the walls, one for each year starting from 1988.

The younger cop sits at the only desk combing through a three-ring binder, Dante’s creased Nevada driver’s license and James Crates’s Italian ID scattered in front of him among an arrest-report document and a microwavable dinner he’s been picking at. The senior officer stands behind, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup, staring at the bound papers as they turn. “Right there,” he says, pointing at something on the page. “Code seven twenty-seven.”

“Hell, you don’t see one of these every day,” he says, reading the description.

“I don’t suppose you do.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what do I do about it?”

The older finishes his drink, then saunters to the coffee pot on a folding table. “Call the State Department in Washington I guess. That’s what the binder says doesn’t it?” He refills, leaving about a millimeter of space above the hot liquid.

“Does.”

He seals the cup with a plastic lid and collects his trench coat from the top of a wooden chair. “When’s Jepson getting back?”

He peeks at his watch. “Fifteen minutes or so I’d say.”

“You all right by yourself till he gets here?”

“Those boys in there seemed to calm down some.”

“That’s right they did.” The veteran slides an arm in his jacket. “Took ‘em long enough.” Then the other arm.

“Go home to Maureen. She’ll be itching to hear ‘bout us nabbing those two. Guns out and all.”

“Nah. Makes her nervous, all that.”

“Not Shelly. She loves it. Those stories.”

“She’s a funny girl that Shelly.”

“She is.”

“Guess that’s why you married her.”

“I suppose it helped her some.” The baby-faced cop looks away with a grin.

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell Shelly hi. Happy New Year too.”

“Same with Maureen.”

He leaves, the junior policeman still perusing the text on the sheet. He spoons some peas into his mouth from his microwavable dinner, then pinches the corner of James Crates’s ID. He studies it for a bit, then taps its edge on the desk while he assesses the situation. He tosses it on the arrest form, gets up, and moseys down the short passageway into the incarceration area.

Stopping in front of Sean’s cell, he says, “Hey boy.” He bangs his nightstick between two bars. “Crates.”

Sean snaps from his daze. He limps to him, wrapping his hands around a pair of bars. “He kidnapped me,” he says in a tired way as if he uttered the same thing a bunch already with no result. “You got to get me out of here. Please. Listen to—”

“We have a deputy in the center of town asking all the right questions to all the right people. He’ll straighten the truth from this. Till he does you’re sitting tight.” He turns to Dante, standing motionless, focusing on the floor. “And that goes for you too.” Dante doesn’t acknowledge him, light from a lamppost outside pouring through a barred window into his cell, strips of bright and dark alternating over him.

“I have a number for you to call in Los Angeles,” Sean says. “A professor. A respected dean at the Southern California Technology Institute. He can confirm the whole thing—”

“For the last time, I told you to quit with all that. I don’t know what either of you was really up to yet, kicking around down there.” He scratches his chin. “Now, we ran your information and the Spanish-looking fella’s through the computer. And between you both you’re the only one that raised any flags.” He points at Dante with his left index and middle fingers. “He’s clean as a whistle. You threw off a code seven two seven. Coming into the country without announcing it to the proper authorities.” He scratches his chin again. “The Feds don’t take that lightly. You know what the hell this is all about?”

“Please, don’t call them. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.”

“I’ll call whoever I want, boy.” Refastening his nightstick to his belt, he ignores Sean’s desperate, pleading expression. “My deputy will be back any minute now with the report. The Feds are getting it whether you approve of it or not. What the hell kind of trouble you been up to giving off a code like that?”

“Hear me out. You can’t call them. First—”

“Quiet down with all that. I want to know what mess you been in. Huh?”

“I’ll tell you anything you want, but please just let me go for tonight and—”

“No use wasting my time,” the cop says to himself. Shaking his head, he disappears up the hall, footsteps softening as he distances.

“Officer. Please.” With his good leg Sean boots the bars of his cell, a ding rippling through the detainment space.

The noise snaps the sleeping drunk awake. “What the hell is this?” he asks with a slur, springing to his feet, taking in his surroundings. He squares to Sean, stench of booze floating off him. “Where are we son?”

“Where do you think?” Sean returns to his bench and tilts his head against the brick wall, little muscles by his eyebrows twitching with anxiety.