Life Sentences (23 page)

Daisy was driving along a residential
side street where the potholes were so deep and so numerous it looked
like a bombed-out landing strip. She stared with nervous fascination
at the weed-infested lawns and cracked foundations. The houses in this
neighborhood suffered from serious neglect. A cold dread washed
over her as she swung into the oil-stained driveway of a faded bungalow
partially hidden from view behind a vine-choked fence. She switched
off the ignition and sat listening to the ticking of the engine. The mailbox
looked as if somebody had walloped it with a baseball bat, and the front
yard's only tree stood like a proud amputee sadistically removed of
its limbs. She could make out the faded impression of an "88"
on the front door where the house numbers had once been.

Daisy got out of her car and headed
up the crumbling walkway toward the bungalow, its stucco exterior
riddled with hairline cracks. The caulking around the windows was so
dried out you could easily push in the panes of glass. There was water damage
around the front door, and the metal doorknob was pitted and dinged.
Dread folded down on her as she pushed the front door open, its creaking
hinges coming loose on their rusty screws.

"Hello?" She paused on
the threshold.

The darkened house didn't respond.

Daisy proceeded down a windowless
hallway, reaching for the walls in order to steady herself. The floor
felt wildly uneven, as if the house had slipped off its foundation during
an earthquake. Everywhere you looked were little piles of scrap
plaster and plaster dust. Her foot hit a hammer that hadn't been touched
in decades. She passed a narrow doorway and caught sight of the kitchen's
cheap particleboard cabinets, its faded linoleum countertops and
a sticky tiled floor with the grout buckling up. The stove had been painted
with several coats of grease and grime.

The living room walls were the color
of melted bronze. The ornamental plaster was fissured with cracks like
baked soapstone, and the ceiling was low and sagging in the center, as
if some quantum singularity were pulling the house inexorably toward
it. Unlit candles hogged all the flat surfaces of the room, and the useless
smoke detector on the ceiling had a bunch of wires sticking out of it.

"Hello?" Daisy said, her
voice echoing back at her.

"Gillian?" came the faint
reply. "Is that you?"

Goose bumps rose on her arms.
"Anna?" She followed the sound of her sister's voice toward the
back of the house, where the hardwood floors had been
overvar-nished
, clumps of dark stains like melanomas
on the floorboards. At the end of the hallway was a
plyboard
door,
unsanded
joint compound filling the many
holes in the dry wall, plaster patches held in place by sloppily applied
drywall tape.

She opened the door, and a sharp
musty odor hit her. Anna lay curled on a messy bed, her head resting on a
sausaged
towel, her long coppery red hair splayed across
the mattress. She wore a yellow sundress-the missing yellow sundress
with its pattern of fuchsia flowers. On her feet were those beat-up
black Nikes that she liked to kick around in.

"Anna?"

Her sister peered over her shoulder
and smiled at her with instant recognition. "Daisy?" She seemed
really pleased to see her but not altogether surprised.

"Oh my God, are you all
right?"

Anna rolled over to greet her, a
sense of discomfort in the way she moved. Her face had filled out. Her
thighs had widened. Her ankles were swollen. Her belly was huge.

Daisy swept into the room.
"My God, what's wrong?"

"I'm pregnant." Anna smiled,
her hands resting on her big belly, supporting it. "Where's Gillian?"

Daisy stood in raw disbelief.

Anna craned her neck. "Gillian?"

"She's not here. It's just
me."

"Oh." Anna reached for
her hand, waving a tissue like f a little white flag. "Look at you.
You're so skinny!"

"How pregnant?" Daisy asked
with some urgency.

"Eight months and two weeks."

Kneeling down beside the bed, Daisy
felt her sister's forehead, then took her hand. "You're feverish. Are
you having any contractions yet?"

"I don't know." Anna frowned.
There were circles underneath her eyes-dark, scary circles. The floor
was littered with food wrappers and empty soda cans, and it looked as if
she'd been eating some kind of gaudy purple breakfast cereal straight
out of the box. "I feel so fat," she groaned. "Look how fat I
am, Daisy."

"Jesus, Anna. How long have
you been living here?"

Her face was soft all over, like a
big cat's. "I'm just so happy to see you."

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"No!" She grew instantly
terrified, her milk-engorged breasts and enormous belly stretching
the spaghetti-stained fabric to its limits. She wouldn't let go of Daisy's
hand. "I'd rather eat bugs than go to the hospital, Daisy. You know
how I feel about hospitals!"

"Okay. Calm down."

"I hate doctors!"

The implications were grave.
Besides the baby's overall health, the fetus hadn't been screened yet to
make sure that it was free of
Stier-Zellar's
disease.

"We've got to get you to a doctor,"
Daisy explained, "for the baby's sake."

"No doctors!"

"
Shh
,
it's okay." A blunt overhead light gave the room its abbreviated
shadows. "I'll be with you the whole time. Don't worry, Anna. Nobody's
going to hurt you."

"Where's Gillian?"

"At the beach. She gave me your
address."

"She takes care of me. She
brings me things. We've been staying here awhile. The owners moved away.
Can you blame them?"

"How long have you been living
here with Gillian?"

"I won't go to the hospital,
Daisy. You know how much I hate hospitals!"

"Okay,
shh
.
Lie back down." Daisy drew the blankets up over Anna's stinky, shivering
body. She got the pill bottles out of her backpack, then ducked into the
bathroom and filled a dirty-looking glass with tap water. She came out
and sat on the edge of Anna's bed. "Here. Take these."

"What are they?"

"Something to make you feel
better."

Anna sat up again while Daisy gave
her
her
meds. She looked at the little pills in her
hand and said, "Tell me the truth, Daisy. Is cyanide brown?"

"What? No. Those are your
meds."

"Because I read somewhere
that cyanide is brown, like these," she said with a nervous intake
of breath.

"Anna, I'm your sister. I'm
not trying to kill you. Just take them. They'll make you feel better. Here."
She handed her the glass of water. "Go on."

Anna's dark blue eyes welled with
tears. "Tell me the truth," she said. "Are these cyanide
pills?"

"No. They're tranquilizers,
Anna. Remember? They'll help calm you down and make you feel better."

She still wouldn't take them.

"Anna. Look at me."

Anna looked up.

"It's Daisy. I love you. Take
your pills."

"I love you, too," she
whispered.

"Good. Then take your
pills."

"They're not cyanide?"

"No. Trust me."

"Okay." She swallowed
the pills with water, then handed the glass back and lay down on the filthy
bed. "I had a dream about us," she said. "Remember the lake
in the wintertime? We were in Mom's car, and we were driving across the
ice, when all of a sudden we saw this other car getting stuck and spinning
its wheels. It sank through the ice, and I thought our car was going to
sink, too, Daisy. So we tried to get out of there, but it was too late. Because
we were already underwater and everything was green. And all these
gems were arranged on the backseat, perfectly arranged for everyone
to see. So I put them in my pocket for safekeeping." She kicked at
the suffocating sheets and blankets and clutched her swollen belly.
"God, it's so hot. Is it hot in here?"

Daisy took out her cell phone.

"Who are you calling?" Anna
whispered fervently.

"
Shh
,"
she said. "Hush. Lie back down. I'm her You're going to be okay."

Jack clawed at his throat in a desperate
attempt to remove the chain and relieve some of the pressure. He couldn't
breathe but kept telling himself not to panic. If the carotid arteries
were constricted, the blood supply to the brain would be cut off, causing
brain death in minutes. He staggered forward on his knees, eyes bulging
with incredulity, fingers pawing at the earth.

Roy held him in a death grip, the
steel chain encircling his neck. Jack could feel cold metal digging into
his flesh and told himself not to move. His carotid arteries were compressed
due to horizontal pressure to the front of the neck. He'd be unconscious
soon. If Roy re-leased him, he might regain consciousness again in
tea or twelve seconds, but what were the chances of that? Jack could picture
himself crouched at Roy's feet-cowering, helpless, pathetic. How had
this happened? How had he gotten himself into this situation?

Jack told himself to hold still. He
might survive the attack if he managed to slip one hand under the waist
chain, thereby alleviating some of the pressure on his windpipe. Maybe-just
maybe-if he didn't panic, if he didn't struggle, he could survive this
thing. The neck was pliable. By slipping his hand underneath the ligature,
he could loosen the chain and protect his windpipe. He held very still
and tried to push his fingers up under the chain, but it was wrapped too
tightly around his neck.

He could see the smoldering grass
and tinder-dry leaf mulch in front of him. A small blue flame flared up.
The fire wasn't completely out yet. Little orange flames swelled toward
them across the forest floor, and the wind made these flames dance and
shiver.

The chain went loose for a second
as Roy paused to adjust his grip, and Jack took the opportunity to slip
one finger under the loop before Roy tightened his grip again. Jack
thought he'd heard something snap in his larynx or trachea. That couldn't
be good. He sagged forward slightly, sensing a drop in blood pressure.
He could feel his tired flesh hanging off his bones; he could feel his
blood pumping sluggishly through his veins, and the clunky clock in his
chest going tick, tock, tick.

His hands grew cold and numb. His
chest was on fire from the effort of trying to breathe. Life sucks and
then you die. He was losing altitude fast. He knew from the many autopsies
he'd witnessed that people who died of strangulation usually had reddened
ligature marks around their necks and claw marks on their throats from
their own desperate fingernails.

Roy was dragging him underwater.
Jack realized with sudden clarity that he was going to die. He was going
to die in this sylvan forest-the only forest in Los Angeles. Now his cell
phone rang. There was no way he could reach it. It chirped in his shirt
pocket. It chirped incessantly. He wanted to answer it, but his hands would
not leave his throat. He tried to speak, but there was a disconnect between
his mind and his tongue. He tried to answer through telepathy. Hello?
he would say. I'm dying here.

All around him, the forest floor
was smoldering, and the wind kept playing with the fire, pushing little
flames this way and that, making them swirl and dance and flare. His brain
felt like hot soup. His tongue was so relaxed it lolled out of his mouth
and overlapped his bottom teeth, and he chewed on it like a piece of meat.

Jack hovered on the edge of consciousness,
all hope dwindling in the distance like a fast-moving truck. His index
finger was numb, but he kept trying to pry the chain away from his throat.
He was proud to have been a cop. He had loved many women, including his
first wife, Tess, and his last love, Daisy. De Campo Beach had been his
home for more than twenty years-sunlight bouncing off the waves, roller
skaters coasting along the boardwalk, sand under his feet, hot dogs at
sunset. He loved the little white blossoms that grew in the spring and winter's
purple twilight bouncing off the many windows of the office buildings
along Main Street. He loved his little girl, light as a thought cloud…
Bonnie Lou? Makowski… his little BOLO… be on the lookout for. Jack could
feel himself drifting away, his mind beginning to unravel. His jaw went
slack. His neck felt oddly distended.

Above his head, the tree branches
made a net that captured the moon. Jack could feel himself floating toward
that lovely moon. Then the fear went away, and his mind was wiped clean.

The detective thrashed around
on his hands and knees in utter silence. Perfect silence. Roy pulled
the body closer, pressing it against his leg and twisting the chain with
all his might. He wouldn't let go until the detective was dead.

Roy was a patient man. He had waited
very patiently for this moment to arrive. He had planned for this moment.
He had studied Jack Makowski. He'd sized him up right away.

Jack was the type of loose-cannon
cop who would go to extreme lengths to solve a case. He would do almost
anything to get to the truth. He would break all the rules. He would lose
control.

Roy had deliberately baited the
police, showing them to the shallow graves of his victims but not to Anna's
grave, knowing full well that it would infuriate Jack. Knowing that he
would be led by his heart, not his head.

Yes, Roy was a patient man. But he
was also an angry man. The anger burned in him still. It had burned in him
all these years. Nobody was going to stop him. Nobody was going to get in
his way. The hate was there. It ran deep. The detective's cell phone kept
ringing. It made a chirping sound. It chirped and chirped and suddenly
stopped chirping. It was as if the detective's heart had stopped beating.

Now the wind changed course, swinging
out of the west and fanning the flames all around them. Flickering flames
gusted around Roy's feet, and he brought his boot heel down in the dirt
and twisted the chain tighter, while the moments ticked past with monstrous
slowness.

Roy waited for it. When the bolt
bit, it blew a huge hole in him. It knocked him out of his shoes. He felt
almost physically ill. He went cold all over and saw flashing lights, as if
he'd been slammed between two Mack trucks. His brain became fascinated
with the fire, with the body slumped in front of him, with his own hands gripping
the steel chain. All this tension welled up in him, and then his whole
body whipped violently to one side. He felt a weird tingling sensation,
like cold water being poured all over him. He felt cold and incredibly
hot at the same time. His tongue tasted like pennies. His arms and legs
weighed a hundred pounds each. His eyelashes hurt. He could feel the
hot air blowing across his body. The detective was almost dead. He could
smell it. The air had a sulfuric, burning smell to it. He breathed it in
and squeezed the chain until he could feel the detective's will collapse.
Until he could feel his heart give out and his mind give up. Until the
body flopped forward in the dirt.

Roy let go, feeling all
floaty
. He released the chain, hands throbbing, and
the detective sagged into the charred grass like a dead deer. Roy noticed
that his pant legs were still burning. He slapped at the fabric, trying to
extinguish the fire with his free hand, but the hot flames came licking
up his legs. He jerked his right arm forward, but the steel handcuff bit
into his wrist. "Shit!" He'd forgotten he was still handcuffed
to the tree.

Roy tugged and pulled, trying to
bring the branch down, but it held fast. It was a sturdy old tree. He scraped
the handcuff along the gnarled tree branch as far as it would go, then he
yanked on it until his wrist bled.

His left leg was sizzling like
acid now, the fabric releasing a thick acrid smoke that made him want to
gag. Fingers clawing at the air, he reached for the detective's body,
but the detective was slumped too far forward. The tree branch shivered
as he stretched his arms wide and finally caught the waistband of the
detective's pants, hooking a belt loop with two fingers. Straining every
muscle in his back, he dragged the body backward across the smoking ground.
He dragged the dead weight toward him. The detective was heavier than
he looked. Roy inched the body closer, then dug around one-handed in the
detective's back pockets for the keys.

Unlocking the handcuffs, Roy dropped
to the ground and rolled around in the dirt. He screamed and pounded his
legs until he'd snuffed out the flames, and then everything went quiet.
He took a deep breath. He let it out slowly. His left leg throbbed where
some of the orange jumpsuit had turned to ash.

He stood up and rubbed his sore
wrist. He opened and closed his stiff fingers, getting some of the circulation
back. He smoothed his hair behind his ears, then turned the body over and
found the cell phone. There were several messages waiting for the detective
on his voice mail. Roy put the phone to his ear.