A Twisted Path Page 5
It was a two-car garage but only the Boxster got to spend the night under the roof. A heavy bag hung from a beam in the middle of the space where the second car would have gone. Old, torn, taped up it looked like a prop from a Rocky movie. It was a cliché, and every time he hit it with knuckles covered with a thin cloth wrap instead of gloves, Furyk loved the sound and the feel. He didn’t dance around, just started jabbing. Once, twice, three times and then a right hook. And again. Jab, jab, jab, hard hook. His neck hurt like crap but he did it again, then again, and it started to loosen up. Now the feet worked a little, moving him in and back again. A few more and then Furyk started to circle a little to the left, keeping the same pattern. Loosening up now, head able to swivel without as much pain. Halfway around the now-swaying bag, he switched and became a southpaw. The right hand started jabbing and the left went for the power punch. It had taken him years to get the left hand strong and now he made sure it stayed that way. Circling in the same direction, clockwise but counterintuitive to the left-handed attack, he picked up speed. The flush of warmth he’d felt a moment ago turned into a stream of sweat that soaked the band at the waist of his boxers, no shirt to keep it from running down his chest. His head started to clear and he was mixing up the combinations, making louder and louder thwacking noises on the old leather. He’d never been one for martial arts or any fancy shit, but he’d learned the value of a good kick and he threw in a left leg and then a right every few steps while he circled. Red patches formed on his shins where the contact was made and the bag shuddered with each kick. He was focused and intent now and the punches were coming harder and faster. He was unaware of his breathing, heavy and regular, sucking in oxygen so his arms could deliver pain to whatever was in front of him. Furyk’s head was bent down and he didn’t see the bag anymore, didn’t see the garage or the tops of his tightly laced Keds with sweat dripping onto the canvas tops from his shoulders and forehead. He was alone, at a moment in time, the punches coming harder and faster, not circling any more but standing perfectly in one spot. His eyes were open but they weren’t present. What he saw in his mind was a face, two faces, a crowd. Faces that had come toward him, had taunted him, had spat words at him. But the blows that followed then couldn’t get to him now. A powerful right, then left, equally hard, equally stunning to the 80 lb. bag that bent with each blow. Another and another, then the left hand stopped and it was just the right. Instinct took over and the dominant side won and he hit the bag harder with his right hand, his shoulders and torso leaning into every strike, and he hit the faces harder, again and again and it was not enough. Blood trickled down the cracked leather and the contrast in color got through his glazed eyes and Furyk snapped to the present almost as hard as he had woken half an hour earlier. He looked at his fist, the brand new cotton wrap now stained with blood. It wasn’t a lot, just an old scar that had opened on the knuckles. He unwrapped both hands and his breathing, which had turned ragged, slowed down. He wiped his neck with the unbloodied cloth and dropped both on the sweat-stained cement floor and headed inside.
Chapter Twenty-One
Eyes closed, mind blank for a few precious moments, Merrill let the hot water pulse down her head, a torrent that enveloped her body and streamed off her legs onto the scarred tile. Who’d have thought the LA County Jail would have better water pressure than Brentwood? She pictured the tan pantsuit and cream silk shirt she’d asked Perry to bring for her first court appearance. It gave her something to focus on. She had plenty of elegant clothes, though they never seemed to feel quite right when she wore them while entertaining Carl’s friends. The thought of his name didn’t make her cringe with pain this time. She opened her mouth and let the water pour in, not quite scalding and cleansing her inside and out. The shoes. She had some nice Jimmy Choos but forgot to tell Perry what to bring. She didn’t want to look arrogant in front of a judge or the million cameras that had to be waiting. The image of the walk from her house to the police car a few days earlier jumped in front of her and she felt a pain in her stomach. The showers in the jail were half-stalls where any direction you looked there was another body. Some were meaty, pale and covered in permanent decorations of butterflies and roses and Japanese writing. Others were flaccid, wrinkled. As short as she was, Merrill’s breasts were above the low rise of the hard plastic slats separating the women as they showered. The ceiling was high and the steam rose so nothing impeded her view of Sally three stalls down soaping up a roll of fat on her arm when Merrill opened her eyes. Before she could look away, Merrill saw a furious look on Sally’s face. Remnants of coarse soap still in her hair, Merrill twisted the corroded handle controlling the flow of water and grabbed for the thin towel that wouldn’t have covered a child’s body. She put her head down and tried to quick-step to the dank room around the protruding brick wall that separated the showers from the dressing area but she moved incautiously and her feet flew out from under her. Her arms comically spun in the air as she tried to regain balance and instead landed hard on the wet, fetid tile, barely avoiding cracking her head open on a piece of cement. Laughter from the few other women pelted her as she rolled onto her stomach to push herself up, more afraid of catching a disease than nursing her bruised elbow and backside. Getting to her knees, she felt a sudden, sharp pain as a hand entwined in her hair and pulled her up brusquely. Unable to turn her head and still down on all fours like a dog about to be disciplined, she was exposed and vulnerable. She could see only see the ground and the ankle of whoever had grabbed her. The ankle had a tattoo of a curved knife in the mouth of what was supposed to be a pirate. The face was distorted by the skin having stretched, the wearer now many pounds heavier than when the ink had been applied. Sally pulled harder on Merrill’s hair and two more sets of legs flashed by, the last women still in the shower not wanting to be witnesses. One stepped on the towel Merrill had dropped as she’d fallen and the wet, dirty footprint left behind offered no help.
“You’re a dumb bitch, but at least you’re clean now.” The words were accompanied by the most agonizing pain Merrill had ever felt as she was pulled to her feet by the hair. Not even a scream could escape Merrill’s lips as she looked up at the space that separated the two women in height. She’d seen Sally’s face a hundred times in the last few days but never close enough or for long enough at one time that she’d noticed the three black hairs on her upper lip that curled inward when Sally snarled. They curled now and Merrill caught herself thinking this was the ugliest woman she’d ever seen in her life. The rage in the brown eyes glaring down at her convinced Merrill it was going to be the last face she ever saw. A small whimper escaped and Merrill instinctively covered her breasts with her hands. Or tried. Sally released Merrill’s hair and grabbed her left breast hard, like a drunken man, and pulled. Merrill weakly swatted at the hand and the forearm, thicker than Merrill’s leg, and suddenly Merrill’s eyes widened. She wasn’t just going to be beaten or killed right now.
“That’s right, sleeping beauty. Not a fuckin’ sound.” Pushing hard, paw still clenched on Merrill’s breast, Sally forced her back toward the last shower stall. Over the muffled voices of the women around the corner, a million miles away, Merrill could hear the heavy breathing as Sally’s drooping chest moved up and down. Rolls of fat cascaded from her torso and rested on thick, meaty hips. A smell of unwashed flesh rose over the antiseptic fumes of the industrial detergent they were forced to use and Sally backed her up against the wall and leaned in. Merrill closed her eyes and her fear rose as the hand released her breast and she could feel the mass moving closer, the breath hurtling across the short space between them, the inevitability of Sally’s presence bearing down on her.
It felt familiar, sickeningly familiar, and she was a little girl and helpless. The image didn’t make sense, didn’t fit with any memory, but it was a visceral, intense feeling. And something snapped, something deep and hidden and she opened her eyes and this time it wasn’t fear that played on her face. Her tiny, petite hands flew up like arrows shot
from a bow and the nails that were small and manicured sped upward before Sally could register the change. Luck or rage guided Merrill’s uncontrolled attack and the thumb of her left hand scraped Sally’s lip and plunged into her nose, scraping cartilage and breaking the membrane. Her right hand was slightly curved like the talon of a Harpy and two fingers drew blood from Sally’s cheek as they raked her face. It was so fast Sally still had no time to react and in the same instant the index finger of Merrill’s right hand entered Sally’s left eye. Under any normal circumstances the finger would have glanced off the eye and slid to one side, entering the space between the eyeball and the bridge of the nose. But the force of Merrill’s fury wasn’t normal and the nail instantly punctured the eyeball and there was a soft pop. Time froze and for an instant neither woman moved. Simultaneously the shriek of agony and shock that emerged from Sally mixed with Merrill’s scream of anger and rage. Merrill pulled both hands back as her momentary strength and fury ebbed and she felt sickened by the sensation of Sally’s eye having distorted, jelly-like, at the end of her finger. Sally bent over and grabbed at her face as Merrill instinctively slipped down and away from her grasp.
Hunched and enormous, Sally fell to her knees and wailed like a child. Merrill’s wet hair hung in her face as she looked down and followed the foot-worn path in the tile to the dressing room. Bodies brushed by her and she didn’t look up, the women coming around the corner to see now that they knew it was over. She didn’t see their surprise or the way they huddled around the wailing woman on the floor, not offering help. She sat, naked and dripping on the plastic bench, the sting of soap now in her eye, while a guard rushed by shouting at the inmates.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Eight o’clock in the morning Margolin’s cell phone rang. Normally he’d have been up for hours, showered, flossed, shaved, smooth and gelled. But last night was filled with dreams during the few hours he’d slept and 8:00 a.m. found him groggy and heavy-lidded. His wife was up and cooking breakfast for Cheyenne, who was still two hours from emerging from her cocoon in the guest bedroom to face another day with a murdered father and homicidal mother. Margolin tried to make out the flashing number on the screen of the super-thin phone and when he recognized it, he woke up quickly. Still, he let it ring a couple more times while he sat up and adjusted the heavy pillow behind him and leaned back on the teak headboard.
“Yes, I’m here.” He didn’t get another word in for the next thirty seconds while the normally controlled voice on the other end rose in pitch and then gained composure, only to rise in volume and intensity again.
“I know. I know…I’ll find out.” Another stretch where Margolin had nothing to say or couldn’t squeeze it in. Finally, “I’ll know more tonight. Just relax…” which was the wrong thing to say. If his wife had been in the room, she’d have been able to hear a few words coming out of the sleek little phone that had never been uttered in that house by any member of the family. There was a pause in the diatribe and Margolin waited a moment.
“We’ll meet tonight. I’ll know more. Where?” He closed his eyes and tried to picture where Henry’s Tacos was on Cahuenga Blvd. Goddamn Valley – he’d get caught in traffic no matter the time. And the meeting was only going to cause more trouble. “Fine, I’ll see you there at nine.” But he was talking to dead air. As he pulled himself out of bed, he didn’t look at the reflection in the enormous vanity’s mirror directly across the room that showed a pallor on his skin that hadn’t been there a few days earlier. Even the hard-on he’d woken up with had dissipated and he headed for a long, hot shower to get ready for the day.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In a thin-walled Motel 6 first-floor room north of Los Angeles and across the freeway from the Six Flags Great America theme park bustling with high school truants and families of illegal immigrants living the American dream for an afternoon, a young girl hunched on the faded flower-designed spread covering one of the two single beds. Felicia chewed on her thumbnail, the only finger with a little room left to work the cuticle. Long, dark-brown hair pulled back and held out of her face by a rubber band, she rocked slightly forward and back. Painted toenails were beginning to chip, the black polish starting to dull and the poorly cut nails making her look even younger than she was. The frayed bottom of her jeans tickled her ankles and she stopped chewing her thumb long enough to yank one of the white threads off and toss it on the floor.
The TV wasn’t playing music videos any more and she stared at the muted images from one of the local news stations. A picture of Carl Wick was on the screen, to the right of the news anchor’s head. The screen cut to a shot of the same photo of Carl but now with Merrill’s mug shot next to it instead of the anchor whose voice narrated over the juxtaposition. Carl in a tuxedo, from the shoulders up, apparently taken at a charity event. The wife, orange jump suit, hair slightly mussed and eyes looking vacant. The girl rocked faster and she gnawed on her thumb. With a quick tug, she ripped off a small piece of remaining nail and it tore down past the cuticle and drew blood. The sharp pain made her jump and tears started as her face screwed up tightly and distorted the smooth, pretty cheeks and tiny nose. Sucking at the blood that welled up on her thumb, she looked at the yellowing plastic phone on the table between the beds, then back at the television. Then back at the telephone, thumb still in her mouth. The tears clouded her eyes, but they stopped as she drew an enormous snuffling intake of breath, raspy with mucous and pain. She reached for the remote with her free hand and turned off the television.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The LA County Jail was familiar to Furyk like an old drunk you pass on the street every day on the way to work – smelling of urine, stained and worn down by too many years of neglect, and making you want to get past as quickly as possible. Stepping through the first set of steel bars on the way to the visitors area, yellow paint chipping to reveal the hard metal beneath, he looked at the faces of the two guards. One was young, barely needing to shave, and already cynical and burned out. The other was twice his age and had the bored look of a cop who’d been on the street for years and decided babysitting in the jail was a reasonable way to back into retirement, not caring that working here was viewed a punishment by most cops.
Prole must have called ahead and smoothed the way because Furyk didn’t have to spend time explaining why he was there. She must have gone a step further because the older cop tilted his head toward the hallway past the communal area where wives and kids and girlfriends sat on hard, shellacked stools and talked to their criminal husband, fathers, and boyfriends through thick bullet-proof glass. Furyk hated using the cracked plastic telephones that hadn’t been updated in thirty years. He followed his escort down the hall to the row of private visiting rooms used for attorneys consulting with their clients. They stopped in front of the middle of the three and the cop pulled out a key to unlock the regular wooden door – a precaution against an inmate ducking in and causing a miscount, leading to a lockdown and full search that took hours and broke up the monotony of the day but pissed off all the guards. Job one in any jail is making sure every breathing criminal is accounted for every second of the day. Furyk stepped past the cop who leaned in to open the door but didn’t go in. Expecting to see Merrill Wick seated at the table with another bored cop standing slightly behind her, he was pleased to see Prole leaning against the far wall, arms and legs crossed and a pissed off look on her face.
“You’re late.” Furyk looked at the large, elementary school-style clock above Prole’s head. It was 9:03 a.m. He didn’t say anything but shared a quick look with the cop who was pulling his key out of the lock and just wanted to get back to his station. The door swung shut and Furyk crossed the small room and went straight to Prole. As she unfolded herself from against the wall he reached her and gave a quick peck on the cheek. Her face flushed and he thought she was going to kick him in the groin.
Furyk avoided smirking when she started to say something and replaced it with a hard look instead – th
e look he’d seen on her face a hundred times when dealing with a perp or a boss. He backed off a step and took up the position she’d been in a moment ago, arms folded across his chest, ankles crossed, one shoulder leaning against the wall.
“Where’s Wick?”
“No warm-up, just right to the main course, and even that was fast food. That’s the Furyk I remember.”
Furyk ignored the jab about his sexual prowess, having a very different memory of their evenings – and couple of mornings and one or two afternoons – together, and knowing with certainty she did as well. She just needed to take him down a notch and it didn’t bother him.
“Maybe we can get lunch later, you know, hang out and catch up.” He was half-kidding, knowing she’d treat it like an arrogant come-on even though she recognized it as an icebreaker, a small gesture from Furyk to take a first step even though she’d been the one to blow him off. She rolled her eyes and brushed past, stopping at the door.
“Why’d you wanna talk to Wick? Chasing ambulances or were you banging the little Jack-the-Ripper on the side? Doesn’t seem your type, though.” Prole had one hand on the doorknob but didn’t seem in a hurry to go.