Shooting Scars: The Artists Trilogy 2 (8 page)

He tilted his head and eyed me with fake disappointment like I was a disobedient child. Or maybe it was real and if it was, that was much more fucked up. “Such an angry little angel. Your wings are certainly dirty. They’re black.”

“Like your heart.”

“The heart you once wanted. What does that say about you?”

“It says get to the point. You’re obviously not letting me go. There’s a catch to all of this and it involves Camden and a score. So tell me what the hell it is so I can decide how screwed I am.”

He raised his brows. “Well, I don’t know how screwed you are, I only know how you liked to be screwed.”

My upper lip wrinkled. “Sick pig.”

“This is true,” he said unapologetically. He clapped his hands together, his watch jangling. “Okay, Ellie. You know what I want. I’ve told you repeatedly. I need your help in getting to Travis. And you don’t have to help me, as you now know. But you should understand that I want this bad enough to call in that little score we must settle. You can help me out of good faith. Yet you won’t. Because a woman like you doesn’t have anything good or anything that resembles faith.” He drew out the word
faith
like it was foreign to him.

“You done trying to be an asshole or do you want to throw psychopath in there?”

His features grew hard and I instantly regretted opening my mouth. There was nothing more troubling than Javier when he got serious.

“Since you won’t help me on your own good conscience,” he said in a clipped voice, “I’m giving you a choice. Just like the one you had before, only, more … detailed. You help me with Travis and in return I’ll settle your debt.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” I said.

“Right. Did I mention Camden McQueen is part of your debt now?”

My heart came to a sudden stop, crashing into my chest, shards of glass in my veins.

“What?”

He smiled though it was cold as a gravestone in winter. “I gave Camden money for you. That’s more money I lost. Because of you. And based on that, I see that Camden’s well-being is part of your debt now. Not his ex-wife’s, not his son’s … I can’t be bothered with them. Camden, now, I could destroy him with the snap of my fingers. That is, if you don’t help me. So … what shall it be? Your pride and freedom? Or the chance to save not only a man you think you love, or at least took pity on, but the chance to kill the man who put those scars on your leg and in your heart.”

You’re the one who left the scars on my heart
, I thought to myself. I felt like I was swallowing down a cotton ball. I could barely look at him. “You promised me you wouldn’t hurt Camden, that you would let him go. And you don’t break your promises.”

He exchanged a satisfied look with Raul before smiling at me. “This is true. I think that’s why I’ve become such a threat to Travis. Because I have my own code that never wavers. Integrity is missing from too many men these days.” He noted my face grow red with anger and went on quickly, “I gave Camden the money. I gave him his wonderful family back. That was what I promised and I did just that. This, Ellie, this is a whole new game with a whole new set of promises. Now, what I need to know is, are you ready to play?”

I wasn’t ready to play anything, but if I could protect Camden, then I was going to do everything I could.

G
od bless apathetic teenagers. If it wasn’t for the bleached blonde girl who was busy doing her nails a sick shade of green as I paid for my gas and a mound of energy drinks, I wouldn’t have made it to Gus’s. I’d probably have been arrested, my ass thrown in jail for who the fuck knows what anymore.

The dry and perpetually unamused girl barely glanced at me and certainly never picked up the
Los Angeles Times
that day. If she had, she would have noticed that yours truly was on the cover. Not a big picture – that was reserved for a report on the country’s economics around Christmas time – but I was there, in the corner, right under the headline ‘Los Angeles Brothers Shot Trying to Stop Domestic Dispute.’

I so called it.

After I left the scene of the ambush – Sophia’s set-up – I sped up the I-5 until I’d reached the town of Valencia. I finally checked into a motel under Connor Malloy and started planning my next steps.

They all involved Gus.

I brought out the number that Ellie had given me and let it ring a few times before hanging up in fear. What if Gus wanted nothing to do with me without Ellie? What if he wasn’t as trustworthy as Ellie had seemed to think? I barely knew a thing about the guy except that he was an ex-LAPD officer, the same police department that was probably combing Sophia’s apartment for clues. I was glad that I never brought anything into her house except a case of contacts and solution. Everything else had stayed in the car, including the briefcase.

Gus would have to be worth the risk. I’d have to trust Ellie, even from afar. He was the only way I could find her, somehow I knew this.

I dialed his number again and this time he picked up gruffly, with a slight accent that I couldn’t place. Maybe Texas or the deep South. It wasn’t obvious but lately I’d been paying more attention to these types of things.

“Hello?” he’d asked.

“Is this Gus? Ellie’s Gus?”

There was a pause. Then, “Is this Connor Malloy?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Not quite. I’m getting there.”

“I’m going to assume from the tone of your voice and the fact that Ellie’s not on the phone, that something’s happened.”

My smile faded. I clutched the receiver hard and sat up straighter on the motel bed.

“She’s gone.”

“On her power?”

“That … that I don’t know.” I explained, as briefly as I could, what had happened. I left out the part about Sophia and her brothers. That could wait, or so I thought. Besides, I was still too angry and exposed over it. To talk about it, dwell about it, would rub the wound raw.

Gus seemed concerned but fairly calm about the whole thing. I liked that he didn’t lose his shit over it though at the same time I hoped Ellie was as important to him as I hoped she was.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Ventura,” I lied, picking the closest town that could still have the same area code.

He grunted then told me his address: 141 Rosewood Drive, Pismo Beach. It sounded too pretty.

“Meet me tomorrow at noon,” he said, then hung up.

It was only luck that got me there at noon. After I saw my face in the paper, the same paper I managed to swipe on my way out without the teenager noticing, I kept my face down and my driving calm as I worked my way up the coast. The ocean was glittering like blue scales, the cliff sides were lush with December rains. It was so gorgeously beautiful here in contrast to my life in the desert that my heart thumped for Gualala, for me and Ellie on the beach there, living in the freedom that only the surf can bring.

I stopped at one empty lookout spot on my way up and got a better look at the newspaper. There were a few things that were wrong about it which might have saved my ass without me knowing it.

In the statement, Sophia had told the cops about us getting back together in Palm Valley and wanting to start a new life before I turned on her and beat her up. I was in the process of stealing her money, “child support” she was saving, when she called for her brothers to help. One of the brothers was in serious condition in the hospital with a broken larynx (and nose, I was sure, since I busted that fucker up), while the other escaped unscathed. Sophia told the police that I was driving a green ford Mustang but she had no idea what the plate number was. In fact, I was driving an olive green Pontiac GTO with racing stripes. Not at all like a Mustang, not to most people anyway. I was more than grateful for her lack of interest in cars.

The next thing that saved me thus far was the fact that the picture of me was one of hers. It was from a few years ago, taken at a friend’s picnic. My hair was surfer shaggy and dark brown, no glasses. At that I quickly took my contacts out, flicking them out the GTO’s window and slipped my glasses back on. This wasn’t a Clark Kent thing. The fact that the article stated I had black hair now and I was covered in tattoos was enough to bust me. Most people would be looking at that picture of me, smiling, dimples, younger, so maybe they wouldn’t notice. They’d be looking for him, not clean-cut nerd, not until they got really close and hopefully by then I’d be gone and it would be a case of them shaking their heads in my wake saying, “nah, it couldn’t be.”

Of course, other than those two little glints of luck, I was screwed. My name, Camden McQueen was out there, in the paper. And perhaps I was even on the news, being pumped into the minds of every citizen of this fair fucking country.

Camden McQueen. Wife-beater. Thief. The worst of the worst.

My mind reeled back to seeing Audrey the other day. She would have put two and two together really fast. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was calling the news now to tell them about her escape from Camden McQueen, the bad, bad man who tattooed asses and kidnapped wives and children.

As if on cue, my phone rang. I looked at the display and sucked in my breath. It wasn’t Audrey. It was my father.

He knew.

My father knew I was a wanted criminal. That could be the only reason he was calling.

I expected to feel ashamed or guilty or something along those lines. But for some sick and twisted reason, I felt defiant. Like I’d actually committed it and I did it to prove a point. I secretly felt that way during the whole money laundering operation, like somehow I was sticking it to the jackass. Now, I wasn’t just sticking it, I was driving in a stake like the biggest fuck you.

Too bad none of it was true.

Too bad I knew my father would not accept this without a fight. And that was something I couldn’t even let myself think about, not at this stage.

So, obviously I didn’t answer it. I just watched it ring and ring and ring again. Then I put it on silent and continued cruising up the coast until the idyllic shores of Pismo Beach appeared.

Gus’s house was a little ways from the beach, down a winding road that barely had room to fit one car. It was a lush and strangely idyllic area, as pretty as I thought it would be and not really fitting for the man I was about to meet.

His house was small, the size of a cottage, but well-kept. The garden in the front was overgrown but still tidy, like organized chaos. It was like he could bully the plants into behaving even though he probably weeded the place once a year. My rock garden was easy to maintain but it didn’t have the same kind of beauty. I think I’d been in the desert for too long.

I rapped on the door and could hear a shuffling on the other side. I knew he was peering through the peephole which was one step better than I thought he’d do. After I’d picked up the newspaper I was so damn certain that he’d pull out of the whole deal. I think he thought I wanted Connor’s social security numbers and that alone was aiding and abetting a known felon.

In fact, the longer I stood there on his steps, a young girl on a pink bike peddling cheerily past his slat-wood fence, the more I thought about what a mistake this was. This was an ex-cop. I was a fugitive. I was a lovesick idiot and a sitting duck.

Before I could change my mind and head back to the car, the door opened a crack and I got a glimpse of a wary eye, grey beard, heavy jowls.

“Camden McQueen?” he sounded even gruffer in person.

What was the use in lying now?

I nodded. “Hello, Gus.”

He grunted and then opened the door. “You better get in here before someone sees you.”

I swallowed and walked in. The carpeting underfoot was worn but soft, the house smelled like a cabin. It was dark. The TV was playing in the background, a movie from the 1940’s. I picked out Peter Lorre’s voice though it wasn’t
Casablanca.

He shut the door behind him and set about locking the many deadbolts he had before finally sliding the chain across.

“Tough neighborhood?” I asked. “I saw a girl on a My Little Pony bike outside, she looked kind of nasty.”

He didn’t laugh. In fact he looked the opposite of amused. He leaned back against the door and folded his arms across his wide chest, his beer gut sticking out to infinity. His gaze leveled me.

“Something tells me this isn’t the time to be making jokes,” he said. “Now, I don’t know if you realize it or not, but I’m not here to be your friend. I’m not here to give you advice. I’m here to give you what you need because I made a promise to Ellie once and it seems by you being here she’s calling in on that promise. I’ll help you if you understand that I’m not doing it to be nice. I’m not doing it to be good. I’ve got my own life that I’ve sliced out for myself here and if I can avoid putting it through the burner, I will.”

I was biting my own lip without knowing it. He was waiting for me to say something.

“I appreciate that, Gus,” was the best I could come up with. Talking to him was a bit like talking to my dad and though I’d like to think Gus wouldn’t suddenly slap me in the face or call me a faggot, there was always the chance that he would. He was unpredictable and completely detached and that combination was a bit frightening.

“How about you go sit down and tell me what the hell is going on,” he said, gesturing to the couch.

I nodded, feeling more stupid by the minute and took a seat on his grey leather couch while he disappeared into his kitchen. I watched the movie on TV for a few seconds and recognized it as
Arsenic and Old Lace
with Cary Grant until Gus came back in the room with a beer. For himself.

He sat down on the recliner across from me and cracked the top of the can, chugging down half of it before slamming it on the coffee table in either annoyance or exuberance. Foam fell down the sides.

“You. Talk.”

I took a deep, calming breath and got into it again, rehashing the story, telling him everything I told him before.

“Why didn’t you tell me about being wanted by the LAPD?” he interrupted.

And here it came. I eyed the window, expecting to see a squadron pull in right through his garden, squashing the gardenia.