(2011) The Gift of Death (13 page)

He looked at his watch. He would have to be getting back on the road. He’d been making the same journey from LA down to New Mexico for the last three years now, always at the same time of year. He’d drive for nearly 700 miles, often through the night, until he reached Albuquerque. There, he’d park at a safe distance from the house, take out the binoculars and watch. He’d do his best to hold the binoculars steady, but when Danny came out of the house his hands would start to shake. He’d cuss himself, tell himself to hold still, but it didn’t make a difference. Those few snatched, jumpy images would have to satisfy him until the same time the following year. He’d often thought about leaving a card or a present on the doorstep, but he was wise enough to realise that not only would Sharon move to a different address, perhaps even a new state, but that he’d almost certainly be risking re-arrest under the terms of his parole.

As he finished the last of his bourbon he heard a chair scrape across the tiled floor. The only other customer, a man wearing a black baseball cap pulled down over his face, picked up his copy of the
Times
, stood up and left the bar. Perhaps he was like him, a man with something to hide.

He caught the barman’s attention and settled his bill.

‘
You got a long drive ahead of you?’

‘
Kinda.’

‘
Well you take care now.’

He nodded and stood up, steadying himself against the bar.

‘
You sure that you’re okay to drive?’

‘
I’m fine.’

‘
You’re the boss.’

He walked out of the darkened bar into sunlight so bright he had to shield his eyes. As he fumbled for his car keys in his pocket he heard the sound of a car engine nearby. He squinted through the sunlight to see the man with the baseball cap sitting in the driver’s seat.

He pressed the central locking device and his car came into life. He’d drive for another four or five hours and then take a break, by which point he would be nearly at Albuquerque. He didn’t need to piss, but if he did he knew he could just pull up on the side of the road to relieve himself. As he got into the grey, mid-range saloon he thought back to the Beemer he used to have when he lived with Sharon. Now that was what you could call a car, not like this piece of mediocrity. With the Beemer every drive was an experience; but there was nothing more to this heap than functionality – fine for getting you from A to B but driving it gave him absolutely zero pleasure. As he thought about the change in his circumstances – the loss of his home, his job, his son - a surge of anger threatened to envelop him. All because of that bitch. She had deserved every punch in the face, every swipe across the cheek, every teeth-shattering bang of the head against the wall. He was still convinced she had been fooling around. But that, apparently, was no defence. If only he had lived in Europe – where was it they had ‘Crimes of Passion’, France? He was sure he wouldn’t have received such rough treatment there.

He took out his shades and started the car. He hit the CD player and started to drive along the straight, almost empty road. Thoughts of snatching a glimpse of Danny the next day kept him going; that and the rage he still felt about the past. After about half an hour he noticed a strange rattling noise in the engine. A moment later the car became enveloped in a shroud of steam and a matter of seconds later he came to a standstill. Before stopping he managed to steer the vehicle off the road and onto the dusty ground.

‘
For fuck’s sake,’ he shouted, as he got out of the car, banging the door shut. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuckin’ piece of shit.’ The Beemer had never had a fault in four years.

If he didn’t get the car started and get on his way he wouldn’t make it to Albuquerque on time to see Danny on his birthday. He scanned the highway, but there were no other vehicles in sight. He took out his cell. There was no reception.

He walked over to the front of the car and opened the hood, burning his fingers as he did so. Steam continued to spew forth from the engine like a little hell.

Then, in the distance, he thought he could see a car on the horizon, speeding towards him. He squinted. Yes, he was sure of it. He would hail them down and hope they either knew how to fix a car or had a cell that worked out here.

As the car approached he stood in the middle of the road and started to wave his hands. He felt like a fool, like a character from a movie, but what else was there to do? Was the car slowing down? Yes it was, and he had to do everything in his power to remain calm, to stop himself from jumping up and down.

‘
Well, I’ll be goddamned,’ he said, as the car pulled over. It contained the man he had seen in the bar, the one with the black baseball cap.

‘
Can I help you with anything?’ the man said, getting out of the car and striding over.

‘
Thank fuck you stopped. Looks like my piece of shit of a car has overheated. I wondered if you knew anything about how to –‘

‘
Sure do,’ he said the man. ‘It’s your lucky day.’

‘
Really?’

‘
That’s right. I’ve got everything here in my hold to fix you up.’

‘
Gee, you don’t know how grateful I am. What are you a mechanic?’

‘
Used to be. One of the many things I can do.’

‘
Well, aren’t I the fortunate one,’ he said, his mood lightening. He felt like he could talk to this stranger in a way he hadn’t talked to anyone in years. ‘You know, if you hadn’t come along I don’t know what I would have done. You see, I’ve got to get to Albuquerque to see my son. It’s his birthday tomorrow. He’s going to be 13.’

‘
I see.’

‘
I don’t get to spend much time with him. He lives with his mom, you know? But it means a lot to me. Just to see him.’

‘
I’ll just get the equipment from the car. What do you say is wrong with it? Over-heating, you think?’

‘
I guess so. What with all this steam and all.’

‘
Okay.’

The slim, well-built man went to the back of his car. Casually, he looked left and right, checking the highway for signs of other cars. Nothing. He listened for anything in the distance. Nothing. He reached into the hold and took out a large, red toolbox. Inside was everything he needed.

‘
What’s your name?’

The man in the baseball cap hesitated for a moment.

‘
I said, what’s your name?’

‘
Steve.’

‘
Hi. I’m Charlie. Pleased to meet you.’ He held out his hand and was surprised that the stranger kept his black gloves on.

‘
You don’t know much about engines then?’

‘
No, not much. I used to have a Beemer, you see. Never went wrong. German efficiency, I guess.’

‘
Guess so. Here, I’ll show you,’ he said, gesturing towards the engine, now mostly clear of steam. ‘It looks like a gasket has blown. You see here?’ he said, pointing towards a part of the engine. ‘It’s hidden by this other part, here. If you just bend down you might be able to see it better.’

Charlie bent his knees, feeling the girdle of fat around his middle, and leaned forwards slightly. What was he supposed to be looking at? He’d play along with Steve. If he wanted to give him a free lesson in car mechanics, then so be it. You never knew, it might even prove useful. He heard Steve unlock his tool case and bring something out.

‘
So you think I might be back on the road –‘

The rock slammed into the side of his bald head, stunning him.

‘
What the –?’ he shouted.

The second blow – the harder of the two – forced him to the ground in front of the car. He thought it was odd that although he couldn’t’ move – as he reached up to try and defend himself his hand lay flat by his side like a dead fish – he could take in what was happening to him. He noticed, for instance, Steve’s gloves sheathed in a black red liquid. A spray of blood had bloomed inside the engine. A mushy, sticky sound was coming from his head as Steve slammed the rock into him. He saw blood pooling beneath him.

‘
You do know why I’m doing this, don’t you Charlie?’

He tried to shake his head, but the movement intensified the pain.

‘
I always ask the same question, and never get the replies I think I deserve. It’s amazing how unaware all of you are. In your case, Charlie, I would have given you a bit more credit. After all, you’re not the typical welfare criminal, are you? In fact, once upon a time, before all that messy business with Sharon, you had quite a nice lifestyle going on, didn’t you.’

If Charlie felt any surprise he was unable to show it; one of his eyes had already swollen shut, the other remained immobile and unseeing.

‘
It’s a shame about Danny, but personally I think it’s for the best. I wouldn’t want any son of mine growing up with a man like you. I know you said that it was provocation, that you did everything in your power to control your violent urges. But you nearly killed her, didn’t you? You slammed her head so hard against the wooden table in the kitchen that it collapsed, remember? And it seems you would have carried on if Danny hadn’t have started to cry.’

‘
How do I know all of this? Let’s just say I make it my business to find out these kind of things. Yes, I realised you served your time in prison. But that was just punishment by man, not a just punishment by the Lord. You must have heard of the phrase, ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’. Well, that’s what is going on here. There’s one exception, of course. Sharon survived your vicious attack. You, I’m afraid, will not.’

He lifted the bloody rock and brought it down hard on the skull, shattering it. He struck repeatedly until Charlie’s head was nothing more than a mass of bone and blood, white splinters of skull ranged around and amongst a dark, sticky liquid. Were they globs of brain material splattered up the side of the wheel hub?

Charlie’s bruised and bloodied face looked like a grotesque gargoyle, the kind of creature one might find on one of the exterior walls of a grand medieval cathedral.

That was funny, he thought. He’d always wanted to go to Chartres, Orleans or Rheims. Or perhaps Canterbury, England, where he could make his own particular sort of pilgrimage. When this was over perhaps he’d treat himself to a trip there.

15

The Beverly Hills Fertility Clinic looked like a large white cube, more like an art gallery than a medical practice. Built in the mid-Fifties by a follower of Richard Neutra for Dan Zinnerman, a top Hollywood agent, it occupied a prime slice of real estate, an expanse of lawn sandwiched between Maple and Elm Drives. After the death of Zinnerman the house became subject to a legal order; apparently Zinnerman had been living beyond his means for years and had died a couple of million dollars in debt. His three sons were in dispute about what should happen to the house and the case spent years in the California court system. The house lay empty for years, its clean white lines becoming soiled by age and neglect. Finally, when the judgement was settled and the house was sold most of the money went to pay the huge legal bill.

The property was bought by a developer – a former actor who specialised in obtaining mid-twentieth century modern houses – who then quickly sold it, untouched, to a conglomerate of medics. The doctors wanted to create a high-end gynaecological clinic, offering a first class service to rich Hollywood wives, but soon they realised that there was more money to be made from assisted fertility. The medics borrowed from the banks to restore the house – the lead practitioner, Dr Tom Cruger, was an architectural freak who lived in a Frank Lloyd Wright designed home in the Hollywood hills – and so today it stood as a symbol of clean, efficient modernity.

As Kate and Cassie stepped out of the car and into the parking lot of the clinic they could hear the flow of traffic on Sunset and Santa Monica Boulevards, but the trickle of innumerable water fountains helped disguise the sound. The garden was immaculate with its shaped beds full of bird of paradise flowers and blood red hibiscus plants, its grove of orange and lemon trees and its driveway of palms.