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With Harry’s Help by Kathleen O’Connor Though the glowing orange sun had sunk below the tree line, it was still seventy-five degrees. David pulled on a raincoat and wrap-around sunglasses before grabbing for the dog’s leash. "Come on, Franklin." The arthritic poodle waddled out the front door of the patio home and onto the sidewalk. There were pink streaks in the sky and no traffic on West Palm Street. The dog, suddenly energetic, pulled past his customary stopping point and turned onto Royal Palm Avenue. During the day, this was a busy thoroughfare but now there was just one vehicle approaching them––a Chevy, one of the private security fleet. David sank into the overlarge coat and held his breath. Every time he saw one of these private patrol officers he wanted to run and hide. But he was grasping the leash of a dog who couldn’t run and wasn’t smart enough to hide. Be cool, be cool, he warned himself as the car slowly edged past them. Harry Bosch never ran from trouble. He pulled the dog back to the familiar and safer West Palm. The moon had appeared and David pointed it out to the dog. "Look over there. It’s got a face tonight." The dog showed no interest but David stared at the bushy eyebrows on the craggy-faced moon. It was supposed to be full but looked dented, as if it had received rough handling somewhere. David heard quick footsteps approaching from behind and began edging toward home. The raincoat was hot and sweat poured from him. Sometimes the greatest danger of being discovered was right here by his own doorstep. He was a twelve-year-old boy living illegally with his grandmother in a fifty-five-plus community. He gave a phony address at school and everything about his life was a lie. His pursuer was a woman. He could hear the high-heeled clicks getting closer. David picked up his pace to as fast as Franklin could walk. Still, he could feel the woman closing in on him. She was probably one of the neighborhood busybodies trying to expel him. There were by-laws stating that persons under eighteen were not allowed to stay at Palm Paradise for more than thirty days. The new security guard had come looking for him twice but always on school days. That was lucky, but soon he was going to get caught and probably end up in foster care. "David, I have something for you." He exhaled in relief and let the melodic sound of Marion Pierce’s voice wash over and comfort him. Marion had given him his first Michael Connelly novel and it was there that he met his fictional hero, LAPD Detective Harry Bosch. David turned and watched his eighty-one-year-old friend approach. She had on a pink-and-white-striped pantsuit and was holding two paperback books. "I see you’ve gone undercover tonight." He was pretending to be a 55-plus person. "You recognized me." "It was the dog that blew your cover." She handed over the books. This is Connelly’s Lost Light. Have you read it?" He held the book reverently and shook his head. "No. I haven’t." "It’s one of his best. The other book is for your grandma. It’s my writing group’s anthology." He held the slim orange book under the street light and read the title, Gator Tales. "Want to come in and give it to her?" "Wish I could, but I have a date. He’s picking me up over at the Community Hall. Don’t want him here. Everybody will be gabbing." "Is it serious?" "Nah. He’s sixty-nine but too old for me. Has no sense of fun, never reads a book and isn’t interesting like you. I’ll tell you about it later." "Are you sure you should go? He sounds mean." "I’m sure, David." He didn’t argue, but watched the street until she was long out of his sight. A chilly sensation was creeping up his back so he supposed that even then he knew. The next day at 3 p.m. he was certain. After walking the four blocks to where his Grandma always picked him up after school, he got into the aging Toyota, saw her tear-stained face and said, "It’s Marion. Isn’t it?" Grandma dabbed at her eyes and asked, "How did you know? Was she poorly last night?" "No." He could not explain to her about bad vibes. "Her cleaning lady found her this morning. Must have been a heart attack." "I think she was murdered." His grandma stopped crying and looked at him with rage-filled eyes. "She should never have given you those adult mystery novels. They’ve warped your mind." Grandma turned the radio and drove home. David didn’t mention the yellow police tape circling Marion’s stucco home as they went past. She pulled into their carport and he followed her inside to the kitchen. She got Franklin a dog biscuit then pointed to their green refrigerator. "Do you want an ice cream cone?" David shook his head. He went down the hallway to his tiny bedroom and lay on his bed, clutching the two books Marion had given him. He wasn’t going to pass Gator Tales on to his grandma. She never read anything but grocery circulars and classified ads. He heard her dialing. She sometimes spent hours talking on the phone and her voice carried. "Oh, Hazel! No! I can hardly believe it. A gang thing here in Palm Paradise! David guessed something amiss happened. I don’t know how he does it. He has some sixth sense. His teacher says his IQ is 150-plus. I told her I don’t want to know about it. I mean there is no money for college. His mother is dead and his father is a useless drunk who never calls. Hmmm. Hmmm. You don’t say. Poor Marion! What a way to go. We must be brave." David got up, closed his door, and tried to concentrate on the two books. The Michael Connelly novel he had read in a fast gulp last night. Now he would read it slowly, savoring it for it was Marion’s last gift. The first line puzzled him though: There is no end of things in the heart. Did that mean he could carry around a chest full of sorrow? Already his heart hurt. Would he die from a heart attack at sixteen? He set the Connelly book down, looked into Gator Tales and read just one item, Marion’s poem. The Dream Just like a dream, an old woman’s fantasy A younger man charges into her life His enthusiasm is high; his manners charming He drives after dark at speeds quite alarming The hair-trigger temper is just an annoyance Pettiness and jealousy are such small vices The younger man charged into her life Just like a dream, an old woman’s nightmare He decided the poem was evidence, and knew he must take some sort of action. He was probably the last person to have seen Marion alive before she went to meet the younger man. And that man might have been her killer. But if he went to the authorities, they would discover he lived here illegally. He would have to think of a plan––a clever plan. "David, dinner’s ready." Grandma was a fancy cook but tonight’s dinner was simple––canned green beans folded into macaroni and cheese. He tried to eat a little. Grandma crossed one leg over the other and admitted, "You were right. Marion was murdered. It was a gang thing." "How do they know?" "There was a gang insignia left in her kitchen. It’s an initiation rite now. To join certain gangs, you have to kill somebody." David blinked and reached to adjust his thick glasses. He believed her death had been violent but didn’t quite believe in this gang theory. He never saw gangs around Palm Paradise. He never saw anyone under seventy. Still, he said, "I guess this is a dangerous place to live. We should move." He wanted to live somewhere else––any place where he didn’t have to hide all the time. "No, they’ll find who did this. The sheriff’s department is looking and we have the best private security force in Florida. Hazel tells me there are several retired military guys working here, a CIA type, and a retired homicide detective." A retired homicide detective! Harry Bosch was a retired homicide detective. Someone like Harry would listen to him and know a murder could be made to look like something it wasn’t. He must find this person. The security guards hung out between shifts at Arabella’s restaurant. On Saturday he would go there and watch them. One of them would be like Bosch. It was Grandma who advanced his schedule. In the morning she looked at his tired, red-rimmed eyes and said, "You don’t have to go to school." They went to the grocery store together and he wheeled the cart. David lacked the energy to reach for his favorite popsicles. Grief, he supposed, was exhausting. After lunch, he casually asked Grandma if he might walk to Arabella’s for a coke. "Do you want a ride?" David shook his head. His adrenaline had started to pump; he was about to meet a retired homicide detective. He grabbed the copy of Gator Tales from his bed stand and started the long, hot trudge to the strip mall up on Route 41. He passed the community hall where the Olympic-size pool glistened in the sun. Sometimes Marion took him to that pool at night after it was officially closed. He didn’t dare use it in the daytime. At Arabella’s he ordered a large coke and eavesdropped on two security guards in the adjoining booth. The one with his back to David had a snorty laugh, was called Hank by the other man, and repeatedly said, "Yeah. Yeah. You betcha." The two men paid no attention to him. He was used to that. Skinny and small for his age, he was frequently overlooked. David struggled to read the nametag on the guard facing him, but the letters remained blurry. Finally he heard the other man call him "Ralph." Ralph was a white-haired man taking fussy sips from a coffee mug. "Don’t know how your kidneys will hold up with all that coffee." Ralph displayed a garage door opener. "I take the squad car home for whiz breaks." He watched as they each threw a dollar on the table and left to start their two-o’clock shift. David sipped at his watery drink and waited for the guards coming off shift to dribble in. He didn’t have a lot of time. Grandma would expect him home by three. Only one guy came and his khaki uniform was drenched in sweat. He was about fifty, had a cocky walk and sat in the spot old Ralph had just vacated. David heard him order a grilled cheese, coffee and fries. The waitress poured him coffee and sort of unnecessarily brushed his arm as she did so. This had to be Harry. David slid out of his booth, carrying his book and nearly empty drink and said to the man, "Mind if I join you?" "No. Not at all. Sit down." He looked amused. David regretted wearing his black shirt with its glow-in-the-dark frog. "I have vital information. I won’t take much of your time." The man’s food came and he said to the waitress, "Bring my friend a…." "Coke," David supplied. "I’m David Kilgroe and my neighbor was murdered. Though I’ve heard about gang activity, I know she was murdered by her boyfriend." He shoved the book across the table. "Read this poem." The guard didn’t. Instead he leaned forward and stared into David’s eyes. "Your pupils are very dilated." "I know. They always are. It’s a condition." "It must make your vision blurry." Not so blurry that he couldn’t read this guy’s badge, and Eric Purcell was fast becoming a big disappointment. "I think this constitutes a disability. I know there are some women trying to get you evicted, but if you go to an attorney with a doctor’s note, we can get you protected by the Fair Housing––" "I don’t want to be disabled. My Grandma can’t afford an attorney. I want to talk about Marion." "And I want to eat my lunch. I’m tired, I’m hot and I don’t think your eighty-one-year-old friend got killed in a fit of romantic passion." "What kind of cop were you?’ "I wasn’t. I worked in Human Resources. If you want a retired cop, go find Ralph Morales." David sucked in his breath and stared. Ralph? Old Ralph? Eric Purcell looked at the poem. "This is just a fantasy." "No it isn’t. She was beautiful and wonderful and you are just a big… poopie-head." As he stood, he saw the waitress double over in laughter. David’s cheeks burned with shame. Poopie-head was Marion’s expression. When he told her about kids teasing him at school, she would say, "They are just poopie-heads." He ran through the parking lot trying to keep from crying. But as he began to turn onto Royal Palm hulking sobs overcame him. The one person who would take him seriously was dead, very dead. He didn’t look up when a car stopped beside him. "Are you all right?" He straightened and stared into the face of Ralph Morales driving a white security car. "Get in." David did and started to explain, "My friend died." "Yes. Marion, a lovely lady." "I don’t think she died the way they said." Ralph Morales was driving rather fast for a security vehicle. He also hadn’t asked David where he wanted to go. "I think her boyfriend killed her, because she was going to break up with him. Do you ever read Michael Connelly novels?" "I don’t read novels." He never reads. Drives at speeds quite alarming. "It was you. Wasn’t it?" He shouldn’t have spoken out loud. Ice cubes were crawling up his back and he knew for sure that he was in a car with Marion’s murderer. David put his hand on the door handle but wasn’t fast enough. He felt his head slam into the dashboard and then he was held down while the car kept accelerating. David felt dizzy, powerless. I’ll scream when he takes me from the car. Then he remembered Ralph’s garage door opener and felt a growing hopelessness. He did kick some when the former detective pulled him from the car but was quickly overpowered. Ralph dragged him inside and pushed him into a nearly empty bedroom. His feet were tied to a chair, his hands more tightly bound behind him and duct tape sealed his lips. "You’ll be going for your last swim tonight––you interfering little brat. I saw you there with her on those moonlight swims. She spent more time with you than with me. I always came last. And now it’s your turn to wait cause I’m going back to work. Don’t you go anywhere." David heard a door slam. The room was dark, and he could see the little frog glowing on his tee shirt. He tried to will himself calm. Bile was rising up his throat and if he vomited with this tape on, he would surely die. David supposed he was going to die anyway. He wished he’d been nicer to Franklin. Grandma would be panicking but be afraid to call anyone. After all, he wasn’t supposed to live here. He thought of Marion. Had she been this scared? His heart thudded in his chest. His ears ached with all the thudding but at least he no longer felt like barfing. He hoped Marion had gone quickly without all this pain and waiting. She was a smart lady but had miscalculated on Ralph. He wondered if all maniacs were this neat. There was nothing out of place in the bedroom. There were no photos or knick-knacks, just two pairs of shoes by the bed and a clock on the nightstand. David’s ankles and wrists began to throb. He tried to pray and couldn’t. Tears further blurred his vision so it was impossible to read the small numbers on the clock. Through the window he could see that it was overcast but still daylight. Ralph’s shift wouldn’t end until ten. Detective Harry Bosch never allowed himself to be a victim. The threat of death always gave him mental clarity. Think! Think! David pretended he heard Harry’s raspy voice urging him to action and he thought hard. He found by making a hopping movement he could inch the chair towards the window. If he shifted his weight and tipped the chair, it would probably crack the window. He just might cut an artery and bleed to death, but Harry would take the risk. He held his breath and plunged the chair towards the glass. Whomp! The glass jiggled but did not break. He rested his hot cheek against the glass and thought he heard a sort-of-familiar voice asking, "David. David. Are you in there?" Unable to scream or speak, he made a moaning guttural cry that was so terrifying it caused the hairs on his own neck to stand on end. Maybe he was hallucinating but he pretended it was Bosch’s sidekick Jerry Edgar out there screaming, "Hang on! I’ll get help!" David stubbed out an imaginary cigarette, slipped out of one sneaker and felt looseness in the rope. Team Bosch had a plan. He managed to wiggle the foot out of its binding and slipped it into Ralph’s steel-tipped shoe. David lurched back towards the window and kicked with all his might. The window did not shatter but broke in three nearly even pieces. He could see there were feet in leather loafers just outside the window. Maybe there was backup. He shut his eyes and clung to that tiny bubble of hope. Soon the sound of sirens grew so loud that David decided they had to be real. He could still hear a voice chanting, "Hang on. Hang on." He heard glass break and looked towards the door. Eric Purcell and two sheriff’s deputies burst in and turned on the overhead light. He closed his eyes from the brightness. They quickly removed the tape and ropes and examined him. He carefully opened his eyes to stare at his rescuers. "Eyes are dilated," one deputy pronounced. "They always are." Eric said. It was comforting to have someone there that he knew. The deputies had loud voices, thick watches and scary-looking belts. He flung his aching arms out and Eric lifted him from the chair. "Phoning for medical transport," the second deputy said. David tried to tell them, "I don’t need an ambulance." But nobody was listening. "Have it meet us up the block––just in case Ralph comes back," Eric yelled and started carrying him out of the house. David clung to Eric Purcell and whispered into his ear. "How did you know?" "I followed you out of the restaurant and saw him pick you up. Had a bad feeling so I kept tailing him, saw him bring you here and leave. I waited. When I saw you by the window, I called the sheriff." "Did they believe he killed Marion?" "I just said you were abducted. They’ll want to talk to you in a bit. Once they find him." David nestled against Eric who smelled of sweat, stress and safety. "Why did you bother following me? You thought I was annoying." "I did. But you called me poopie-head and that was my little brother’s expression so I thought I better look after you." There was something David desperately needed to know. "What about your brother?" "He was killed in a plane crash thirty years ago." "But you remember him?" "Always." There is no end of things in the heart. He was beginning to understand that line better. You didn’t just carry pain––you kept bits of the people you had lost. Marion was going to be in his heart, always guiding him. The ambulance pulled up and a pretty girl in blue slacks got out of the passenger door. She and the driver helped him onto a stretcher. As she reached for David’s hand to check his pulse, he gestured with his free arm for Eric to lean in close and whispered, "You could have been a homicide detective." THE END Kathleen O'Connor © 2006 |
Kathleen
O'Connor is a graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop where she was awarded
a Michener fellowship. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and the Short Mystery
Fiction Society. Her short stories and articles have appeared in Redbook,
Good Housekeeping, Seventeen Magazine, Woman’s World, St Anthony’s Messenger and
Liguorian. Another story has been accepted for the