Deceived (9 page)

He tried to talk to her once over a piece of Mrs. Axelrod’s lemon cake. His impression was that she didn’t want anybody to get too close to her. He thought at the time she might just be shy.

But according to Arty, it wasn’t shyness at all. She had a resistance, Arty called it, and he asked Mac to pray for her.

He prayed for her now, as he drove his pickup around the curves of Circle Road, passing the little white church on his right.

He thought about the first time he met Arty.

Mac and Pastor Jon were fixing a flooded bathroom on a hot afternoon. It was a Saturday, and the place needed cleanup before the service the following morning. They’d rented a snake and were cleaning out some mean things in the depths of the porcelain abyss.

“Does this mess remind you of anything?” Pastor Jon had asked.

Mac laughed. “My past life?”

“Exactly,” Jon said. “How ugly sin is, and how Jesus cleans us out. But not like this. Not on hands and knees with a lot of hard work. With Jesus, it’s instantaneous.”

Jon liked to use everyday events and items in his sermon illustrations. Mac figured he was trying a new one out.

“The Bible says God looks at us as righteous when he sees us through Jesus,” Jon said. “The fancy name for it is
imputed righteousness
. It’s like an accounting. The books are cleared when you’re in Christ.”

Mac picked up a crescent wrench. “How about this?” he said. “Can you make up a Bible illustration with a crescent wrench?”

“The love of God grips you,” Jon said. “And turns you around.”

“Man, you’re quick,” Mac said. “Were you this quick when you were playing ball?”

Jon was about to answer when they heard a knock.

There was a guy standing at the open door, and he said, “Is there a minister around?”

That was how Mac first got to know Arty Towne.

Later, Mac would realize Jesus
had
performed a miracle in that bathroom. Only it had nothing to do with a backed-up toilet.

It had to do with regenerating another sinner.

Turned out Arty Towne was a guy full of questions. What good is religion when there’s so much suffering? Why did Jesus have to die? How can we know the Bible is true? Why are there so many nutty Christians?

He also talked about making money. He made a lot of it, but in some kind of way he was starting to question. He wasn’t specific about it, but it was there just the same.

Pastor Jon let him ask all he wanted, and the three of them sat inside the church for four hours, talking, reading the Bible.

A little after five, Arty Towne received Christ in the Pack Canyon Community Church.

Since then, Arty and Mac had become close. An unlikely pair. Arthur Towne, with a university education and a great job and a wife. And Daniel Patrick MacDonald, high-school dropout, wounded vet, ex-con.

The only thing they shared was a Savior, but that was enough to start. Along the way, they found they both loved good Mexican food and the Los Angeles Dodgers. Mac told Arty that while he was in the joint, listening to the voice of Vin Scully on the radio on hot summer evenings kept him sane.

Arty told Mac that radio sportscaster Vin Scully’s voice was etched like audio gold into his childhood memories, because of the ’88 Kirk Gibson homer in Game One of the World Series. They laughed and reminisced about that. They’d both seen that game on TV.

Gibson, limping to the plate, barely able to move, Dodgers down a run in the bottom of the ninth. Eckersley on the mound. The most feared reliever in baseball. Two outs, a man on. Gibson fights the count to three and two.

And then the shot heard round the world.

Mac remembered Scully saying,
In a year that has been so improbable
,
the impossible has happened.
For a time after that, Mac thought everything in his life would be okay. If the Dodgers could beat the A’s and Eckersley in the ninth, an out-of-whack vet could get his act together against the curves and sliders life was throwing at him.

Arty told Mac he remembered those words from Scully, too, and that they made him want to go out and conquer the world. Made him think anything was possible if you believed enough.

Their friendship was forged out of Jesus, baseball, and good eats. How could you get more American than that? Mac thought it made perfect sense. The amazing part for Mac was that Arty turned to
him
for Bible teaching. In the three months since Arty became a Chris tian, they’d been through almost the whole New Testament together.

The lights were out at Arty’s place when Mac pulled into the drive way. There were no streetlights in this part of the canyon. The night seemed extra dark. LA haze in the sky obscured the stars. He went to the door and knocked.

No answer.

Sure. They could be anywhere. Movie. Dinner.

But for some reason, Mac didn’t think so.

For some reason, he thought somebody was in trouble.

Headlights broke through the darkness.

Who is that? Rocky thought. And why is he standing in front of Arty’s house?

She checked the number. 871. And she knew it was Feather Lane — a street name she always found strange. But this was Pack Canyon. They did things differently here, and she didn’t much like it.

A few weeks ago, there’d been a shooting. The
Daily News
ran it on the front page. A biker shot another biker at a biker bar. It was Wild West time.

The guy looked like trouble, whoever he was. Broad shoulders and a hard expression as he squinted into the lights.

She thought about backing up and driving away. She didn’t like Pack Canyon. She thought maybe she’d come back another time. But she had come all this way, and it was just one guy, and maybe he was a friend of Arty’s or something.

If she needed to give him a swift kick, she would.

She stopped the car but kept the engine idling. She got out and stood behind the door.

“Is Arty home?” she said.

The guy started down the steps. He wore blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and black jacket. He wasn’t bad looking, either. But then, neither was Boyd.
Just get that thought out of your mind right now
,
Roxanne
,
you idiot.

“No,” the guy said. “I’ve been trying to reach him.”

She felt better when he said that. His voice was at least friendly. Still, she was ready to jump in the car and gun it if she had to.

“You’re a friend of Arty’s?” she asked.

“A good friend,” he said. He was at the door now. “Daniel MacDonald. People call me Mac.”

“Oh yeah, Arty mentioned you,” Rocky said. “I’m his sister.”

“Rocky? Glad to know you.” He stuck out his hand. “I was wondering when we’d meet.”

“Uh-huh.” She shook his hand. “So any idea where he might be?”

“No,” Mac said. “I’ve left a couple messages for him. Maybe he’s out with Liz.”

“Great.”

“Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“Nice meeting you,” Rocky said. She started to get back in the car.

Mac said, “Don’t you want to wait?”

“Maybe I’ll come back in a while.”

“I was thinking of grabbing a burrito, if you want to wait with somebody.”

She was hungry, and a burrito sounded good. Any kind of Mexican food sounded good. But she only had two dollars on her. And she wasn’t exactly ready to socialize with a stranger.

“Thanks anyway,” she said.

He said, “Are you sure? It’s about time we got to know each other. Arty’s sister and his bud. Besides which, I’m buying.”

She hesitated, another refusal on her tongue. But it stayed there. Arty’s friend. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to get close to her brother again. This was a start.

Besides, she noticed her stomach was playing mariachi music. “You talked me into it.”

7:03 p.m.

Liz made herself cry over her husband’s body, even though it was in a zipped-up coroner’s bag. She got the tears flowing as it was shoved into the back of a van, where it would be sent downtown.

So they said. They seemed as unconcerned about it as if it were a sack of laundry. She guessed that must be the way it is when you handle a lot of dead bodies. Just another day at the office.

Arty didn’t deserve that. She’d grant him that much. It made it a little easier to cry.

They were still near the parking lot, she and this guy named Ted, and the detective from the LA County Sheriff ’s office. A woman named Moss. She wore a brown suit with a white blouse, and she had a six-point star on the left side of her belt. She was about forty-five years old. Wheat-colored hair with tight curls that looked like they did pushups. She was throwing around a little too much authority to suit Liz.

“Once more, Mrs. Towne,” Detective Moss said. “And this will be all for tonight.”

“I hope so,” Ted Gillespie said.

Moss turned to him. “I believe a deputy took your statement. Is that correct, Sir?”

“Yeah — ”

“Then we’ll be in touch. Thanks for all you’ve done.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I’d prefer to speak with Mrs. Towne alone for just a moment, if you don’t mind.”

Ted glanced at Liz. He had a lost-puppy look. “But somebody needs to take her home,” he said.

“I can drive,” Liz said.

“We’ll take care of it,” Moss said. “Thanks again.”

Ted shuffled his feet but didn’t move in any direction. Then he said to Liz, “Can I check on you tomorrow?”

“No need,” Liz said.

“But I want to.”

“Thank you. I need a few days.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gillespie.” Moss gently pushed his arm and got him started off toward his car. He didn’t move very fast. Like a dinghy against the current. Resistant.

“Good thing he came along when he did,” Moss said.

“Yes, it was,” Liz said.

“Now you were saying that as you were falling, you grabbed your husband’s shirt?” Moss had a little notebook to jot things down in.

“That’s right,” Liz said. She didn’t need to try to sound tired. She was. But she gave it an extra sigh anyway. She wanted to get home, be alone, regroup. Think things through. She had plans to make.

“And what, you went backward and your husband went over you?”

“Something like that.”

Moss scribbled. “If you can just tell me, to the best of your recollection, how he fell.”

“Why is this necessary?” Liz said. “He fell and died. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s just so I can give a full report,” Moss said.

“Can we finish this right now and be done with it?”

“Would you rather do this at your house?”

Liz shook her head. “Here is all I remember. I grabbed Arty by the shirt as he was reaching out for me. Then I felt myself go backward. Arty went right over me. Then I remember falling. And I hit my head, and I think I blacked out for a minute.”

Moss nodded, wrote.

“When I came to, I saw Arty there, and he wasn’t moving. I guess I knew he was dead, but I didn’t want to give up. So I got back up the hill and started for the entrance.”

Moss stopped. “You didn’t have a cell phone with you?”

Cell phone. She’d forgotten all about it.

“No, no . . .” Liz said. “Please, can I go home now?”

“You left your cell phone at home, or in the car?”

Liz rubbed the sides of her head. “I don’t remember. We just didn’t have it. We were hiking.”

“Of course.”

“I want to go now.”

“Yes,” Moss said. “There really shouldn’t be any need for you to relive this further. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Towne.”

The detective patted Liz’s arm. Liz forced a smile and nodded. She walked slowly to her car. She felt like Moss was watching her as she did. Two eyes boring into her back. Or was it just the feeling that something was behind her? Trouble, gaining.

Keep moving.

7:38 p.m.

El Toro was a great little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place in Chats-worth. Mac had many a meal here with Arty. It was the most honest Mexican food in the valley, they agreed. Maybe the city, which was saying something.

He and Rocky got a table near the window looking out at Topanga Canyon Boulevard. That was another honest thing about the place. No pretenses on the view. You came for the food and watched the cars go by.

A waitress asked if they wanted something to drink, and Rocky looked at Mac as if asking permission.

“Have whatever you want,” he said.

“I’ll have a Corona and a shot of Cuervo,” Rocky said.

Mac ordered a Coke.

The place was about three-quarters full. Traditional Mexican music played in the background, and the smell of hot tortilla chips mingled with the thick scent of steaming carnitas sizzling on a serving pan at the table next to them.

It was a smell Mac associated with friendship. He could see the family resemblance in Rocky. She had Arty-like lines in the face. Except for the scars.

He thought then that he deserved those scars more than she did.

“Arty says you’re a singer,” he said.

“That was nice of him,” Rocky said. “Maybe when somebody actually pays me to sing, I will think so.” She’d find out on Monday if that would happen. Under Geena’s watchful eye, she’d called the Mashed Potato Lounge, and they said she could come in then. The thought of it made her stomach clench.