Going to the Bad (30 page)

Rod was the first to come to his senses. “Hold still.” He jumped in and tried to grab the snake at its head where it was still lodged in Junior's thigh.

I shook Erabelle's arm. “Go get help.”

“Are you kidding?” she said. “This may be the greatest thing I've ever seen. Two snakes in a death match.”

“Exactly. A death match,” I yelled. “It could be poisonous.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, no. That's a python. I've seen plenty of them abroad, although never one this big. There's no venom. They squeeze their victims to death.” She pointed at her nephew's leg. “See, like that.”

The snake was indeed coiling itself around Junior's leg. Rod still tried to get control of the reptile's head, so Frank pulled on the midsection in an attempt to remove it from the leg. The only result was that more of its lower end fell out of the van.

“Kill it,” Junior screamed. “It's squeezing me. Just kill it.”

Security arrived. I would have hoped that someone screaming his head off would have elicited a faster response, but since one of the guards quit on the spot after seeing the snake, I don't think they were Frank's best men.

Their arrival freed me, on a moral level, to do what I'd been longing to do from the start—shoot video!

My iPhone easily captured the moment when all seven guards
pulled on the snake and, instead of freeing Junior, only raised him leg-first off the ground. The audio quality wasn't great, so his screams sounded like a high-pitched girl's.

That recording of Junior I didn't erase.

They finally got the monster snake uncoiled and subdued. While everyone was busy tending to Junior, Rod and I got in the news van and drove away. I was a little worried they might stop us at the front gate, but they had bigger problems.

Even though Rod was driving, I still put my call to KJAY on the speaker.

Freddy answered on the second ring. “KJAY, we're on your side.”

“That little dog is still with you, right?”

“Little dude is finally in his crate. I scrounged some wire and locked him in.”

I didn't really think the snake had eaten Thing, but it was a relief nonetheless. “I know what they're looking for at the crash site.”

“The city sent out a press release saying they're making an announcement at noon. Is it toxic waste?”

“No. A giant python was in one of the crashed vehicles and escaped.”

“Dude!”

“That's probably why the animal control officer never came back to the station yesterday. I think they were trying to find the snake before they had to announce it to the public.”

“But I totally said there was a snake in the crash.”

“I know. I'm sorry. But in my defense, you also said there was toxic waste.”

I e-mailed Freddy the video of Junior, then held the phone up so Rod could give Freddy instructions on how to handle the story. We also called the city and told them that the snake, probably attracted by the heat in my van, had crawled inside the open door when I'd chased the officers, Freddy, and Thing into the alley near
the crash site. We tried to explain that it was now at Leland Warner's mansion, but I'm not sure they believed us.

We reached Rod's house and again parked the news van next to the Prius. I went inside with him, mostly because I feared that if I said my piece in the van, I wouldn't be able to get him out of the vehicle.

He shut the door and headed to the kitchen. “We should only stay long enough to get something to eat. You need to see a doctor about your face.”

I followed him. I watched as he checked the pizza, hoping it was still good. “We're not going to eat or do anything until we talk.”

He looked up. My tone obviously alarmed him, as it should have.

“I may not be smart about understanding people or even knowing them.” I made sure we were looking each other square in the eyes. “But I know you lied to me about the murder.”

Christmas Day, 11:04 a.m.

R
od shook his head. “Warner and I told you the truth.”

“Mostly, but not all of it.”

He struggled for a moment, then yielded to a burst of uncharacteristic anger. “You weren't supposed to know any of it. I promised Bud. He begged me. He was dying right in front of me, and all he cared about was you never knowing what he'd done.”

“Your promise to Bud is just an excuse.”

He pulled back. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means trust me or give me up. If you don't like me the way I am, there's no point in being in a relationship. I'm not a salad bar.”

His expression changed and he leaned in and looked at my pupils. “Do you have a concussion? Maybe we should've gone straight to the hospital?”

“I'm not delirious. I'm trying to explain that you can't pick and choose the parts of me that you want.” I pointed to myself. “This is it. The good and the bad are a package deal. If you can't even trust me to handle the truth about my own uncle, then why would you want to be with me?”

“This is about trust, but you've got it backward.” His voice rose. “All I've ever done is twist myself into knots trying to prove I love you, but nothing is ever good enough. We could be together for a hundred years and you'd still expect me to hurt you.”

Even in my angry, defensive state, this had a ring of truth to it, but I wasn't ready to give in. “You're treating me like a child who needs to be managed and controlled.”

“I'm trying to protect you.”

“That's what Warner said about Erabelle.” I turned and walked out.

My KJAY ID card was one of the things Junior had taken from my pocket and tossed into the oil field when he'd been looking for the phone. I had to call the newsroom and ask Ted to come open the side door for me.

A Yule log had run in place of our local morning show. Ted was preparing for the noon while the demon was out covering the snake story. Other than a skeleton crew of control room staff and Freddy on the assignment desk, nobody else was in the building. Even Callum was home in bed.

Ted opened the door. “Did you find Rod?” His eyes focused on my face and he did a double take. “What happened?”

“Rod's fine. I'm sorry. I should have texted you.”

“That's great, but what happened to your face?”

“Don't worry, you should see the other guy.” I entered and we walked together through the empty building. “He needed X-rays.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor. You might need stitches.”

He clucked over me like a mother hen, which would have been nice except I was still upset about Rod's being so overprotective. Just to make Ted stop I got the first-aid kit and went into the anchors' dressing room.

What I saw in the extremely well-lit mirror surprised me. I knew it was bad, but not your-face-looks-like-ratatouille bad. An alarming cut ran across my cheek and ended at my split lip. Blood had dried on my neck and shirt. Despite the ice I'd applied earlier, my cheek had swelled to resemble a tomato. My lips, normally a pleasant rose color I rarely covered with lipstick, looked like an eggplant.

After cleaning up, applying Neosporin, and changing into a clean KJAY polo, I texted everyone that Rod was safe. I debated calling Lucero, but finally decided I didn't want to talk to him and sent a text instead.

I thought about calling the hospital and checking on Bud, but I was afraid of what they'd tell me.

I applied more ice and killed some time helping Ted feed the animals. His mood had improved considerably from last night. He'd agreed to re-air the pet segment on the noon show, and viewers had immediately begun tweeting the news. Several had even suggested Ted and the demon would make a great morning-show team.

Ted also planned to use the video of Junior and the snake. My only regret was that Junior was probably in the hospital and wouldn't be able to see it live.

I avoided sleep, despite my body's fatigue. Experience pulling overnighters for work has taught me to power through the next day and go to bed at my usual time. Otherwise my sleep cycle goes haywire and I'm miserable for weeks.

At quarter to twelve, I gathered my things.

I drove through the empty streets and past the closed businesses. Festive decorations were everywhere. They'd been mounted by business owners and the city government in celebration of Christmas morning, but no one was around to see them.

December is a month of anticipation. A month of parties. A month of planning and shopping. A month of food. A month of television specials and holiday movies and packages in the mail. A month of dreaming what gifts might still be given and received. A month of baking. A month of Christmas cards from forgotten friends and tree-lighting ceremonies at malls.

It all leads to this. All that money, time, and energy spent in service of Christmas, which I've always found to be a sad and monotonous day.

Maybe that's just a sign of how broken my family and childhood were. Maybe normal people wake up on Christmas morning and gather with loved ones in a way that fulfills all that anticipation.

In my house, my mother vanished into the kitchen. Instead of the holiday meal being an excuse to bring us together, it became a physical manifestation of her worth as a human being. She
allowed no assistance or interruption and attacked her task with the precise execution of a general going to war.

My father, home for the holiday from the oil fields, vanished into himself while sitting in plain sight on the living-room couch. If I attempted to show him what Santa had brought, he'd nod and listen, but nothing was there. He was like a robot programmed with appropriate responses.

My sister, two years older than me, might as well have been from another planet. We shared no real touchstones. We spoke different languages. Other than our DNA, we had nothing in common.

Bud had been the only one I felt a genuine connection with. I consoled myself with the knowledge that even if he died, I'd still have that connection and everything he'd meant to me.

I reached the airport and parked. The number of cars in the lot surprised me, but then I guess this was not a day when people told their relatives to take the airport shuttle home. I debated waiting outside because of my face, but decided I couldn't risk missing her.

Inside the airport's only terminal, a small crowd waited for the passengers on the plane from Phoenix to disembark. I spotted Mrs. Paik's granddaughter with her parents. The mother and daughter shared a physical resemblance, but their body languages and attitudes couldn't have been more different.

I tried to stay out of sight near the rental-car counter. I avoided people by pretending to look at the posters advertising the amenities available in Bakersfield. Our motto had once been “Sun, Fun, Stay, Play,” but even the Vacation and Visitors' Bureau had realized how silly that sounded in the context of farmland and oil fields. Now they wisely pushed our country-music heritage, which at least had the advantage of being real.

The first trickle of passengers appeared, followed by a gush. Family members reunited, then quickly left for the parking lot or baggage claim. Mrs. Paik emerged toward the end.

Her dowdy clothes looked meticulously maintained. No
wrinkles or stains marred the simple blazer—a Herculean task considering she'd just got off a flight. The gray hair I'd last seen under a hairnet now rested close to her scalp in the tightly spun curls of a permanent. The only flaw in her orderly appearance was a slight curve of her aging spine.

Mrs. Paik's granddaughter, all sloppy and loose, hugged her with a childish enthusiasm that surprised me. I felt bad for the girl's mother, left out as she was. If my sister and I spoke a different language, then Mrs. Paik and her granddaughter spoke the same one, despite their age and cultural differences.

I intercepted the family at the door. “Mrs. Paik?”

They each stopped abruptly. Confusion and a little fear were evident in their startled expressions.

“I'm sorry,” I hurried to say. “You probably don't recognize me because of my face. I had an accident. We met last summer when my uncle Bud was working at Double Down Donuts. I'm Lilly Hawkins.”

“Yes, I remember.” Recognizing me didn't relieve her tension. She stayed as tightly wound as the curls on her head. “You need stitches.”

“It looks bad because it just happened, but once the swelling goes down, it should be fine.” I tried to laugh. “You should see the other guy.”

The joke did not go over. It actually made the daughter more uncomfortable, not less. “What are you doing here? I made it clear on the phone last night that you'd made a mistake.”

“I only have a couple questions for your mom.” I turned to Mrs. Paik. “Bud was shot yesterday and I'm trying to untangle some of his affairs. I know it's Christmas, but could you spare a few minutes?”

For a moment no one knew what to say. Being intercepted at the airport by an acquaintance with a messed-up face is bizarre. There's no real protocol for handling a situation like that.

“But I don't understand,” Mrs. Paik's daughter finally said. “How did you even know we'd be here?”

I had no answer, which was stupid because it was bound to come up.

Fortunately the granddaughter had thought ahead. “I texted her this morning and asked how Bud was. I said Grandma would want to know when she arrived.” The granddaughter rolled her eyes. “Suspicious much, Mom?”

Despite being in the country for over fifty years, Mrs. Paik still spoke in accented English. “How bad are Bud's injuries?”

I debated before saying simply, “There's no brain activity.”

Mrs. Paik's shoulders slumped even more than age had already lowered them. “That is terrible. I'm sorry for you and your family.”

“Do you mind speaking with me for a few minutes? I promise not to keep you too long.”