Three To Get Deadly (95 page)

The aftershock.

The center of the overpass collapsed, turning both ends into immense, concrete slides. Marty rolled and tumbled, along with a dozen other people, two cars, and one motorcycle, down towards the concrete river bed below.

"The valley?" Marty couldn't understand what Beth was thinking. She might as well have suggested they move to Fresno. "Why would you want to move there?"

"Because you can get twice the house for the money," Beth replied.

"That's because no one wants to live there."

"Michael Jackson lives in Encino."

"I rest my case."

They were renting a house in Westwood, two blocks south of Wilshire Boulevard, for $2200-a-month. The neighborhood didn't have the cachet it once did, but when Marty walked the dog he still bumped into character actors, up-and-coming directors, and C-list screenwriters, and that was nice.

"Marty, for what it costs to buy an old, two-bedroom fixer-upper in Santa Monica we can go to the valley and get a new, four-bedroom Mediterranean mansion with a swimming pool and a huge yard in a gated community," she said. "And, best of all, we won't have to send our children to private school."

"We don't have any children."

"We will," she said. "That should be the criteria for choosing where we live, not whether it's a hip place."

"The valley has no character. It's just shopping centers and freeways and tract homes. It will be like living in one of those rest stops on the interstate," Marty argued. "What's wrong with the Hollywood Hills or one of the canyons, off Coldwater, for instance? Or how about the Palisades, Hancock Park, or Brentwood?"

"Forget about the hills and canyons. I don't want to be living on the edge of a cliff when the next quake comes. Besides, those houses have no yards at all and are on narrow, steep streets. Hancock Park, the Palisades, and Brentwood cost too much for too little, and we'd still have to send our kids to private school at $12,000-a-year-per-child," Beth said. "I also want to know our children can play in the front yard and be safe, and in a gated community, you've got some measure of security."

"So, in other words, you want to live in a country club prison out in the boonies," Marty replied. "If we're going to do time, let's at least try to embezzle some money or rob a bank first, so we've actually earned the punishment."

"I want the most for our money and the safest possible neighborhood for our family," Beth said firmly. "You want a place you can brag about over lunch at Le Guerre, so when agents messenger you scripts at home for a weekend read they'll be impressed by the zip code. Jesus, Marty, where are your priorities?"

He looked at Beth's face. Her eyes were blazing with anger and stubborn determination. She was already a mother-bear protecting her cubs, and she didn't even have any yet.

How could Marty argue against getting more for their money, the best schools for their kids, and security for his family? He couldn't. She knew it and so did he. It was an infuriating position for him to be in.

Who cares that the valley was numbingly dull, choked with smog, and one evolutionary step above a vast trailer park? No matter what he said in opposition, he'd come off like an asshole.

Beth was always doing this to him, framing an argument in just the right way so he got trapped every time. Either that, or he was a genuine asshole, and he didn't like that possibility.

Okay, so he did care what people thought about his zip code. What's so bad about that? After all, part of being a husband and father was being a good provider, and the wrong address, the wrong car, the wrong clothes, or the wrong table at a restaurant could have a severe impact on his industry credibility and, eventually, his advancement prospects and salary. And, by extension, the lifestyle he could provide his loved ones.

Image was the only thing that mattered in his business and yes, damn it, what other people thought about where he lived was important. But he couldn't admit that now, not when she had fiscal and parental responsibility on her side.

So he gave up.

It was just a house, and he was at the network most of the time anyway, which was why they could afford to buy a place. He'd just have to stay late on Fridays, that's all, and refuse to allow anything to be messengered to his home. He'd say his home was sacrosanct. The idea suddenly appealed to him. A rule like that would make him look even more powerful.

Yeah, he thought, I'm an asshole and pretty successful at it, too.

Marty sighed heavily and smiled in that lovable way he knew she liked. "Does this mean I have to trade my Lexus in for a Volvo wagon?"

She smiled back. "Not yet."

He put his arms around her and pulled her close. "Have you ever seen
Chinatown
?"

"All I remember is that Jack Nicholson gets his nose cut and slaps Faye Dunaway around until she admits she's his mother and his sister or something like that."

"Then we better go rent it," he turned her around and led her to the front door. "If we're going to live in the valley, you'd better know its secrets."

5:13 p.m. Wednesday

There was water in the Los Angeles River after all, and it was warm.

That was the first sensation Marty became aware of, the next was the intense pain radiating from his right side. Every breath brought a new stab of agony. He guessed broken ribs, because he'd suffered that before, falling off a dirt bike when he was eighteen, and it didn't hurt this bad. That was two only two broken ribs, maybe all his ribs were broken this time. He was barely aware of his scorched back. He'd traded up to this new torture, which was so strong, it demanded all his attention, blotting out the discomfort of his other injuries.

The instinctive part of his brain was doing a quick systems check, his synapses firing back responses from all over his body, reports filtering up through his consciousness. He tried to wiggle his toes and flex his fingers and was relieved that he could and without feeling any new pain. At least he wasn't paralyzed. A visual inspection was required now and he was afraid of what he would see.

Marty opened his eyes and saw blue sky and half of the Wilbur overpass sloping down towards him, tiny pebbles of asphalt rolling down its cracked surface and spilling onto him.

He slowly lifted his head so he could see his body, knowing it was probably a mistake, that he'd widen the hairline fracture in his neck and paralyze himself for life, but he couldn't resist. Marty had to know what was causing his pain.

His neck didn't break, but what he saw made him gasp in shock. There were three inches of bloody rebar poking through his side. The warm wetness he was feeling wasn't water, it was blood. He was stuck on a piece of exposed iron from the snapped support pillar.

If that was true, then why wasn't he feeling the hard, jagged surface of the mortar under his back? Whatever he was lying on was soft and squishy.

Marty looked over his right shoulder. The blood he was soaked with was only partly his own. He was on the end of a human shish-ka-bob, the rebar impaling Marty and the several people beneath him who had cushioned his fall. He was sorry they were dead, but at the same time, knew if they hadn't died, every bone in his body would be broken. The thing to do was not to think about them or that it was their guts sticking to his back.

He looked to his left, and saw a crumpled Buick Regal only inches from him and realized things could be much, much worse. He could've been under that.

"Help!" he yelled, and immediately felt a blinding, teeth-grinding wave of pain that almost made him faint.

He looked to either side again, and then he listened. The only moans he heard were his own. He was alone. His walk was over and probably his life, too.

Marty closed his eyes. It was almost laughable. He'd survived so much, only to be taken out just a few, short miles from home. All because he'd strayed from his path to find a little girl he didn't even know.

And Beth would never know why he died. She'd always wonder how he ended up speared in that river bed, so close to home, with a snapshot of two strangers in his pocket. If only he had a pen, he could write it all down, tell Beth so the story would be resolved. But this story would remain unfinished, just like every other one he ever tried to tell. There was a certain ironic justice to that.

A rock pinged into the car, right above his head, startling him into opening his eyes. Was this more loose rubble, or was the rest of the bridge about to fall on him now? He stared at the cracked asphalt, willing it not to move.

Another rock hit the car, near his head again, but he was certain it didn't come from above, because he was watching. This rock came from an angle. Someone threw it.

"Hey Marty," a voice yelled, "wake the fuck up."

He turned his head, looked up to his right and saw a figure standing on the edge of the high, vertical riverbank.

Marty blinked hard and squinted at the trick of the light.

"I knew you were alive," Buck yelled happily. "You're the luckiest damn guy I've ever met. Now, are you going to lie there all day feeling sorry for yourself or are you going to get up?"

It was one of those utterly improbable and convenient coincidences that he railed against every time he came across them in a script, an undeniable hallmark of weak plotting and hack writing. And yet there Buck Weaver was, like a western hero, the sun behind his back, casting his long shadow across the concrete river.

Marty smiled. "Buck, what are you doing here?"

"Saving your skinny ass."

"What are you waiting for?" Marty replied, "Get down here and do it."

"That's not exactly the plan I had in mind."

"Then what's your plan?"

"My plan is that you get up off your ass, like I said."

For a moment, Marty's anger actually eclipsed his crippling pain. "I'm impaled on a fucking piece of rebar. Why don't you come down here and help me?"

"Because I'm not fucking Spiderman. These banks are totally vertical, so that's out, and if I try climbing down that bridge, I could bring it all down on top of you, not to mention me. I suppose I could go all the way back to Balboa Park and walk up the canal from there, but you'll probably bleed to death before I get back. So you might as well get off your ass. You're fucked no matter what."

Marty closed his eyes and groaned. He felt the blood pulsing out of his wound. "And then what am I supposed to do?"

"Walk to the park and climb out of the river."

Marty had to laugh, even though the slightest motion of his stomach caused a new wave of pain. "I got a better idea. You go find help. I'll wait here."

"There isn't any help. I'm it. And I'm telling you to get up. Be a fucking man."

Of course, Marty thought, why didn't I think of that. "How did you find me?"

"We can have a fucking chat when you're on your feet," Buck yelled angrily. "Now get up, goddamn it! You can't catch fish with your line in the boat."

"What did you say?"

"You heard me. Get up!"

Marty didn't know how to lift himself off the spike, and even if he did, he was afraid the pain would be so bad, he'd fall right back on it again, impaling himself somewhere else even worse. He was also afraid of how much it would hurt, though it was hard to imagine anything hurting more than it already did.

"How am I supposed to do this, Buck?"

"Grab the car with one hand, use the other to steady yourself. Then bend your knees, plant your feet, and use your hands and legs to simultaneously lift and push yourself up. Nothing to it."

It sounded like the most complicated physical procedure Marty had ever heard. At this moment, Olympic gymnastics seemed simpler to perform. But Buck was right, Marty had no choice, unless he wanted to stay there and bleed to death.

With his left hand, Marty grabbed hold of the car, made sure he had a firm grip, then placed his right hand flat beside him and tried not to think about what the spongy surface was under his palm. Then he drew his knees up, which caused him to slightly shift position. The bolt of pain that shot from his wound took his breath away.

"I don't think I can do this," Marty whispered to himself. Somehow, though, Buck heard him.

"I read about this Texas Ranger in the old west, got himself captured by the Mexicans. You know what they did to him? They made him stick an arm into this knothole that went through a pecan tree. They put a big rock in his hand, then tied his fist shut around it so he couldn't pull his arm back through the knothole. They left him like that for the wolves or the Indians or whatever. You know what that tough bastard did? Cut his own arm off with a pocket knife and dragged himself 40 miles to the nearest settlement. And you're complaining about one, lousy sliver in your flab?"

Put like that, his problems did seem a bit petty. Marty counted to three and did it.

The agony was excruciating. He screamed, the rebar sliding out of him with a moist squish. It felt like half his guts came out with it, too. Just before he fainted against the Buick, he imagined his intestines trailing out behind him, tangled in the pipe.

For a moment, he was just floating, the pain was gone, and he was blissfully calm. Then his consciousness came back, pushed forward by a stampede of pain that pounded through his body.

His eyes flashed open again.

"See, that wasn't so bad," Buck said.

"My side is killing me."