The Ticket Out (40 page)

Cool air blew up from the tunnel. I breathed in the underground smells—dirt, old cement, damp wood, and damp paint.

Doug pulled me back into the bedroom. He pointed to a gap between the bed and the wall. “Sit there—the bed will be some protection. You can cover the tunnel and the bedroom door. Give me your radio.”

I got it out. Doug flipped a switch. “We're all on the same tactical frequency. You listen in and holler if something happens.”

I sat down, braced my back into the wall, and rested the Colt on my knee. I had a clear view of the closet.

Doug said, “Please don't do anything stupid.”

I just smiled at him. He gripped his shotgun, stepped into the closet, and started down the stairs. The stairs creaked like crazy. I heard it in stereo—once from the tunnel and once from the walkie-talkie.

His footsteps stopped; he had paused at the bottom of the staircase. He was waiting for the signal from Smith and the two Sheriff's guys.

I wiped my hands on my jeans. I was suddenly dripping sweat. Smith's whisper came over the walkie-talkie: “The south exit is covered.”

McManus's voice came—almost on top of Smith's: “West exit covered.”

Gadtke whispered, “This is no tunnel. It's a whole fucking
town.”

Doug said low, “Roger. Do you have lights?”

Smith whispered, “It's bright as day.” McManus said, “We have lights.”

Doug said, “Same here. Wait for me.”

I heard the hiss of static, and pictured Doug entering the tunnel. Then there was silence.

I strained to listen. The silence lengthened ... and lengthened. I pulled the radio closer and strained for any sound. Nothing: silence.

I felt my body seize up. My mouth went dry. My stomach got tight; my legs and arms got heavy. I had to make a deliberate effort to grip the Colt and keep it aimed at the closet. It took me a minute to identify the problem. Then I realized: it was rank fear.

Jesus!

I jumped. A gunshot from the tunnel! Small calibre—I heard it in stereo. I struggled to stand; I grabbed the edge of the bed. I could barely breathe.

“Police! Stop or I'll shoot!”
Doug's voice from the walkie-talkie.

More gunshots—pounding feet—a groan and a crash. The walkie-talkie fritzed out and went dead.

I didn't even think. I forced myself, I propelled myself, forward. I fell into the closet, caught my balance, straightened out, found my legs, and started running down the stairs. I bounced off the end wall, changed direction, and hit the tunnel going flat out. Water had leaked and the old carpet was slick. I slid and slipped, and found my footing again. The tunnel stretched long in a straight line ahead of me; it
was
bright as day with the wall lights. There was nobody anywhere in sight.

I booted it and ran, slowing down once to listen. The only sound was my own panting breath.

Up ahead, I saw a broken walkie-talkie on the floor. It was outside the door to a bedroom suite.

I heard a noise and ran inside.

Scott Dolgin lay on the floor. There was blood all over, on the floor, on him. The blood was pumping fresh from a wound in his neck.

He was unconscious. I looked around for something to staunch the blood. I saw a sleeping bag, a pillow, and a pile of take-out cartons. I grabbed the pillow and wadded it against Dolgin's neck. I needed something to hold it there. I started to unbuckle my belt—

All the lights went out.

I froze. Everything was pitch-black.

Oh, shit!

A shotgun blast—somewhere in the distance. A man yelled. The sounds echoed and re-echoed down the tunnel. I couldn't tell what direction they came from.

The walkie-talkie:
“Suspect in west corridor headed north!”
A response; voices shouting and garbled.

More shots. The pistol twice. A shotgun back.

I heard a woman scream, and a second woman scream. They sounded close.

I pulled out my flashlight and ran into the tunnel.
Scream your heads off,
I thought.
Scream them off!

I ran to the T-junction and stopped. The tunnel forked right and left. The women screamed again. The sound came from the left fork.

I turned left and ran. I pictured the east side of the tunnel: a kitchen, a conference room, a string of offices.

The screams were coming from an office.

The tunnel took a right. I took the right and kept running. I kicked open the first office door. The screams stopped suddenly.

I sprayed my light over the walls and furniture. I didn't see any women.

The office was equipped and functioning. Desk, filing cabinets, ancient Dictaphone, ancient typewriter. The desk was covered with papers. An in-out tray was full of memos. A large graph tracked “Pictures in Production—1939.” A framed photograph of Irving Thalberg stood propped on the blotter.

A woman screamed.
“Help!”

It was loud; it was right
there.
I whirled around. It came from a wall of cardboard boxes. I recognized the boxes—they contained Neil Phillips's MGM memos. The boxes were being pushed outward from behind. An office adjoined: someone was trying to escape.

I grabbed a high box and toppled the stack. Loose paper poured out in piles. A body fell over the boxes and tried to tackle me. Fingernails clawed at my throat. My light beam caught a face.

I yelled,
“Mrs. May!”

She kept clawing my throat; she was blind and deaf, crazed. I whacked her with the flashlight. She screamed and let go of me. I shoved her over the loose paper, back into the inner room, following her.

I slammed the door and put the light on my face.
“Ann Whitehead!”

Mrs. May's eyes went wide; she realized who I was. She wore her gardening clothes from Monday. She looked completely terrorized.

She fumbled at something inside her shirt. I started to duck. She pulled out her necklace, snapped the chain, and shoved it at me. I caught her flailing hand and grabbed the necklace.

Someone whimpered. I stuck the necklace in my jeans, turned and shined the light around the room. It was a doctor's office. It was small and narrow, and the floor and walls were white tile. I saw a porcelain sink, glass-front cabinets, an examining table with stirrups, and a plastic model of the female reproductive system.

My light hit Isabelle Pavich. She was huddled in a ball under the sink. The light caught her and she huddled back, whimpering. I was actually glad to see her.

Mrs. May stumbled over and knelt down with Pavich. They put their arms around each other.

“Police!”

Male voices. They were close.

I heard running feet in the outer office. Someone was sprinting straight for us. I heard him trip and skid on the loose paper. He slammed into the door full force.

Pavich screamed. I dived for a corner. I aimed my gun and flashlight at the door.

“Police! Stop!”

The door crashed open. Neil John Phillips staggered toward us. He was waving an automatic.

I yelled,
“No!”

I heard Doug yell,
“Hold your fire!”

Phillips fired wild at the cops. I screamed and pulled the trigger. Gunfire drowned out my shot.

Bullets and buckshot shattered the door. White light dazzled the room. I tried to cover up. Phillips flew forward and hit the floor facedown. The women shrieked. Mrs. May panicked and stood up. She flung out her arms to deflect bullets. The sink exploded. Her chest erupted. I screamed and curled up tight. She collapsed on top of me. Blood gushed over me.

The roaring stopped.

 

I
LAY VERY
still. I was pinned to the floor. The air was filled with smoke that burned my nose. My ears were ringing. I couldn't move my chest to breathe. Warm blood glued my eyes shut.

Someone lifted Mrs. May off of me. I was rolled onto my back. Blood seeped into my mouth. I tasted it and wondered whose it was.

Someone wiped my face. Someone pressed their head over my heart, and found the pulse in my wrist.

The Colt was pried out of my hand. I felt lips on my cheek and lips at my ear. I felt the lips move—someone was trying to talk to me. Someone wanted me to say something.

What was I supposed to say? Clearly it was the end of the world.

I
WOKE UP
on the couch in Doug's living room. The hospital had given me an injection for the pain. It knocked me right out.

...

I could just turn my eyes. The clock said 1:54
A.M.
I would've believed anything. I'd lost all track of time.

...

My head ached. I craved a drink of water.

...

I saw a pitcher and a glass on the coffee table. I tried to lift my arm and say, “Water.” The effort was too much for me.

...

I closed my eyes.

...

The last thing I remembered was the emergency room. The doctor had said I must have a lucky angel. I'd been hurt worse than I realized: bulletproof vests are useless for arms and legs.

I was full of wood and tile splinters, bone fragments, and shotgun pellets. The doctor tweezed, dug, probed, and stitched up multiple holes. I also had a cracked rib and three fractures in my right hand and wrist. The impact of Mrs. May's body had done the rib; beating on Dale Denney had done the hand; the pry bar at the pool house had done the wrist. A ricochet had grazed my left leg and missed a big artery by inches. That, and no head wound, were the lucky parts.

The doctor had understood that I couldn't talk. She'd called it shock. She gave me some pills and said they'd help with the shaking.

...

Doug had carried me out of the tunnel. He'd laid me on the Thalberg lawn and tucked his windbreaker around me. I remembered shivering; I was wet to the skin. I'd lain on my side, facing the Casa de Amor. My nose and throat burned. My ears rang for a long time.

The cops had carried the other bodies out of the tunnel. Neil John Phillips, Isabelle Pavich, Mrs. May. They were laid on the lawn near me. Doug tried to block my view—but I saw. Shotgun rounds had ripped out Phillips's back. The exploding sink mangled Pavich above the neck. Mrs. May had no chest. I saw Smith push her intestines back into her belly. I saw Gadtke close the flaps of Pavich's face. The cops were covered with blood. I threw up on the grass. I threw up and threw up until there was nothing left. I lay there looking at my own vomit.

A whole parade of new cops had arrived. Cops in plain clothes; cops from the Sheriff's and the LAPD. Lawyers from the district attorney's office. Everybody was asking questions. They'd tried to question me.

Scott Dolgin was still alive—I heard a paramedic say so. An ambulance had taken him to UCLA.

Doug drove me to the closest hospital. He'd carried me into the emergency room, jumped the line, flashed his badge, and demanded a doctor. He wouldn't fill out any forms, or even wait for the nurse's answer. Walking straight through to the examining rooms, he grabbed the first doctor he found and coerced immediate treatment. The doctor cut off my clothes and washed me clean. I was stitched, taped, and gauze-wrapped all up my left side. I got a plastic cast for my right hand and she gave me a shot for the pain. I had refused to be checked into the hospital. I had refused to let go of Doug.

...

My mouth was so
dry.

...

Someone came into the living room. I opened my eyes. It was Doug. He looked grim and drawn; he still wore his bloody clothes. He saw I was awake and said, “How do you feel?”

I started to cry.

He came and sat beside me on the couch.

I couldn't control myself; I was helpless and crying hard. The tears streamed down my face.

He wiped the tears with his hands.

The tears kept coming. I didn't gulp or sob—I wasn't making noise. It was just tears.

He had fixed me a bed on the couch. He took the sheet and pressed it against my face. He wiped my cheeks and eyes, found a new dry spot, and wiped my cheeks and eyes. He did it again and again until I'd soaked the edges of the sheet.

The tears stopped finally. Doug folded the sheet and smoothed the blanket over it. His expression was unreadable. He reached for the water, poured a glass, and helped me sit up. I swallowed two mouthfuls and lay back on the pillow.

Doug said, “Can you nod your head?”

I nodded.

“You're going to be asked to make a statement, several statements, as to what happened this evening.”

I nodded.

“No one considers you in any way culpable, but you'll be entitled to legal counsel if you wish.”

I nodded.

“I want you to nod if I'm correct. You heard gunshots and made the decision to enter the tunnel.”

To
see if you were hurt,
I thought. I nodded.

“You discovered Dolgin, and you heard the women call for help. Your intention was to rescue the women.”

His tone was so impersonal:
he was mad at me.
I shut my eyes. I prayed I wouldn't cry again.

Doug said, “Was that your intention?”

I nodded.

Doug said, “You didn't signal your whereabouts by radio because you didn't think of it in the heat of the moment.”

I shook my head. I
forgot
the walkie-talkie in Phillips's bedroom in my panic to find
you.
I felt tears start to ooze, and kept my eyes shut.

Doug was silent.

He said, “However it happened, in the last analysis, you almost prevented the deaths. We heard you call out to warn us that you were inside with Phillips.”

Doug was silent for a time.

“The guy was prepared to take everyone down with him—Dolgin, Mrs. May, Miss Pavich, us. He could have evaded us easily once he cut the electricity. Instead he led us back to the office.” His voice was tired; I'd never heard him so tired.

“You saw the boxes of memos. We also found the stolen transcripts, but we don't know yet if they're relevant to the crimes. It appears that Phillips was leading a make-believe life down there.”