What Waits for You Page 5

  “He creeps,” Heather Malins of the LA Weekly had told her readers. “He creeps, and he watches, and he waits. I hereby dub him the Eastside Creeper. And while I don’t believe the death penalty actually solves anything in the long run, I really don’t care. This guy needs to be deleted, like a piece of buggy software. We don’t need to study it, we don’t need to understand it, and we don’t need to reason with it. We just need to get rid of it.”

  Malins wasn’t alone in her thinking. Right around that time, members of local neighborhood watch groups began coalescing into roving bands of vigilantes. They pulled all-night shifts, guarding street corners with walkie-talkies and clubs and cans of pepper spray. And the talk was, if they did find him, he wouldn’t be turned over to the police.

  * * *

  On a night in early June, when summer in Los Angeles was still gentle as a warm bath, high school junior Ben Bauman and his girlfriend, Jenna, were necking in her Hancock Park bedroom. Ben wasn’t supposed to be there, but Jenna’s parents were out for the night and weren’t due back until late.

  The teens were lost in each other; deliciously, blissfully lost. And while neither expected that that night would be the night, there was still the giddy sense that things could slip just a little out of control, that perhaps their kissing—raw and urgent as it was—would no longer be quite enough. Not with the windows open, and the electric summer night spilling in, and the jasmine blooming so high and sweet and strong in the air. And yes, her fingers were finally making the first exploratory tugs at his zipper when they heard the unmistakable sound of the garage door rumbling up.

  Jenna’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God.”

  “Who’s that? Your parents? What’re they doing back already?”

  “Shit. You gotta go—go! Get up!”

  Ben rolled off the bed and stepped into his flip-flops. Jenna was at the window. “It’s them, they’re pulling in.”

  “Shit!”

  “Oh my God, I know, I know—fuck.”

  “What do we do?”

  “You can’t go downstairs, they’ll see you.”

  “So what do we do? Tell me!”

  “You have to hide.”

  “What? No, I’m not hiding. If your dad finds me, he’ll shoot me. No.”

  Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Jenna gave Ben a pleading look. “They’re gonna come up and check on me. You gotta hide.”

  Ben grinned. “I’m gonna go for it. It’s classic.”

  “Go for what?”

  “I’m gonna go out the window.”

  “No, you’ll—”

  “C’mon, it’s perfect. So ’90s.”

  “Ben…”

  But he was already crossing the room. There was no screen on the window, and when he put his foot on the sill, his toes poked over the edge. He turned a final time to Jenna. She too was smiling by then. There was something classic about a lover slipping out the window.

  “I’m Skeet Ulrich,” said Ben. “And you’re Neve Campbell.”

  “Yeah?” said Jenna. “Then I guess I have to do this before you leave.” In one swift motion, she pulled off her T-shirt and bra. Ben’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t help it. He’d never seen a girl like that before, not in real life, and hadn’t really been sure what to expect, what it would actually be like to see her that way. He knew that men had looked upon women for thousands of years, knew it intellectually, but couldn’t imagine anyone had ever before experienced what he was experiencing now. How could they have felt this warm, this fulfilled, this delightfully overwhelmed? If they had, why would they have wanted to do anything else? Anything else but just stare and stare and stare, taking in every exquisite detail.

  “Jenna…”

  “See you in class,” she said.

  Ben lowered himself quietly onto a narrow section of the first-floor roof. The red clay shingles were heavy and didn’t move when he put his weight on them. He let go of the sill and got down on all fours, moving laterally along until he could get close enough to a nearby jacaranda tree. The roof was dusty, and he’d need to wash his clothes and take a shower when he got home, but who cared? He’d seen her breasts. Not even fully naked! Just her breasts, and oh what a total cosmic rush…

  Across the street, Ted Degraffenreid—the volunteer on Creeper patrol who guarded that block of McCadden Place on Mondays and Wednesdays—looked up at the sound of rustling leaves and creaking branches. At first, he thought he couldn’t possibly be seeing what he appeared to be seeing, but what else could it be?

  The figure nimbly descended the tree and jumped the last few feet, landing on the grass. It looked around, making sure it hadn’t been noticed, and crept across the yard, doing its best to stay in darkness.

  Degraffenreid wasn’t in law enforcement, but he’d been waiting years—perhaps his entire adult life—for the moment unfolding before him. He was a mechanical engineer by trade, had an appreciation for elegant design, for the transmission of force through a superior structure to an inferior one, and for the ultimate yielding of the latter. He loved the math of it, loved how the want and will of human passion were irrelevant in true matchups of strengths and weaknesses. A hundred newtons of force was a hundred newtons of force, and any opposition that couldn’t muster at least as many in return was bound to fail. A deficit of a fraction of a fraction of a percent was enough to guarantee that failure, regardless of any other factors.

  Doubt, however, remained. What if there was some alchemy in emotion, some hidden potential afforded by desire, or anger—or even insanity—that could overwhelm the math? Absurd. But still, such ideas persisted. So Degraffenreid wished to test his mastery of the physical world, test it against something both physically and emotionally powerful. Something that required nothing in the way of restraint or mercy. A mugger would’ve been good, but he hadn’t been mugged since he was a teenager. And laws could get so complicated when it came to self-defense. His fantasies had evolved, growing more elaborate in the last few years. Now he believed a rape in progress would be the ideal scenario. The benefits of such an event would be practically incalculable. He’d be able to systematically destroy another human being, drive mass and metal against collagen polymers, striking through to the bone beneath—a remarkable natural composite material whose very objective was not to break.

  He would be able to savor this experience without the slightest fear of punishment—quite the contrary, he’d be rewarded, lauded by a grateful community. Then of course there was the surviving female. Degraffenreid’s arrival would coincide with her purest moment of need, the precise second in which she realized she was helpless to defend herself, but before she experienced substantial psychological trauma. Her exultation felt during and after the rescue would therefore be untarnished by any lingering disorders and translate directly into an unshakable desire to worship Degraffenreid. This worship would naturally include the basest of sexual favors.

  But this—this, was so much more than he could’ve hoped for. If he were the one to apprehend the Eastside Creeper, he’d be a true hero—a hero unlike any since the dragon slayers of myth and legend. As he crossed the street on silent wing-walker boots, this thought, more than any other, lay at the forefront of his mind.

  Around his neck he wore a whistle—titanium, coated with orange photoluminescent paint—that would send out a hundred-decibel shriek if he wanted it to. He could blow it now, alerting his fellow guardsmen to the danger, but he chose not to. He didn’t need their help. The Creeper was one man. More a boy, really, now that he could see him better. Not particularly big and strong, but it didn’t take size and strength to bash in helpless old ladies with a claw hammer.

  Degraffenreid continued to close the distance between himself and the Creeper, who gave no sign he knew he was being observed. Degraffenreid reached down to his belt and drew his weapon. Marketed as the Whack-A-Do Fish Bat, it was a beautifully conceiv
ed instrument. With a housing of 95A Durometer urethane hugging a core of 7/8-inch 2011-T3 aluminum and a pound of lead shot, the fish bat was as deadly as a pernach mace, but with a greater capacity for transforming potential energy into the kinetic variety.

  Degraffenreid hefted the bat, marveling at the power it lent his arm. The Creeper slunk along, now on the sidewalk and heading toward Fourth Street. Not too fast to call attention to himself, but it was amazing how guilty he looked. Everything about him screamed criminal.

  When he was close enough to touch, Degraffenreid spoke.

  “Hey. Stop in the name of the law.”

  2

  Morales answered the door wearing an open purple bathrobe, argyle-print boxers, and a black T-shirt featuring a portrait of Pancho Villa next to the words “MEXICAN. NOT Latino. NOT Hispanic. NOT Mestizo.” His eyes were glassy, his nose rubbed raw, and he clutched a wad of tissues.

  “Come in at your own risk,” he said.

  Jarsdel went inside, picking his way around a Lego project in progress—a scale model of a Saturn V rocket.

  “Ephraim’s into space shit now,” said Morales, closing the door. He shuffled over to the couch and fell into it, raising a palm to his forehead. “I wanna just die, man.”

  “I won’t stay long.”

  “Not so loud, not so loud.”

  “I’m talking too loud?”

  Morales nodded, keeping his eyes closed. “And your voice resonates in a weird way. In my ear. Buzz-buzz.”

  “Sorry, can’t do a whole lot about that.”

  “Just say what’s up and lemme go lay back down.”

  “Lie back down.”

  “Dude. So help me God, I don’t care if I’m sick. I will summon the strength to throw your bony ass out that door.”

  Jarsdel tried to think of how to begin, then decided on the simplest way. “RHD’s taking over all Creeper investigations as of Monday. Task force. We turn over everything to Captain Coryell.”

  “So we’re off, huh?”

  “Advisory capacity as needed, but yes, looks like it.”

  Morales grunted. “Good. Let it be somebody else’s problem.”

  Jarsdel didn’t answer, and his partner cracked open a bleary, red-rimmed eye. “Not you, though, huh?”

  “I would’ve liked to have seen it through, yeah.”

  “Tully Jarsdel. Savin’ the world, one shitbag at a time. So’s that everything? The task-force stuff? Coulda just called, you know.”

  “I was hoping to do some triage. Maybe talk about what’s next. Got four bodies on ice to choose from.”

  Morales slumped onto his side. “Uh, no. Haven’t you ever been sick before? If I wanted to do that, I’d be at work right now. You’re the skinny…” Morales pressed the tissues against his face and sneezed hard. It sounded like someone stepping on a set of bagpipes. He mopped at his nose and mouth, then closed his eyes. “God. Fuck this. I got a flu shot, right? So why’s this happening? I don’t know. Like a train going through my head.”

  “What were you going to say?” asked Jarsdel.

  “What?”

  “You were saying I’m the skinny something.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Skinny sadist. You look harmless. Mr. Scout Leader. Mr. Dudley Do-Right. But you’re the skinny sadist. Ha. I like that.” Morales closed his eyes again.

  Jarsdel stood. “It’s alliterative, but it’ll never catch on. Too burdensome.” He’d endured enough nicknames from his law-enforcement brethren and hoped to quash this one at the start. “Prof,” a dig at his academic background, had faded away when he’d solved his first major case. But a few months later, following Jarsdel’s repeated chidings that Morales used too many paper towels after washing his hands, his partner finally shot back. “You remind me of my dad. It was always, ‘I ain’t made of money, turn off the light,’ or ‘Don’t roll down the windows when I drive—eats up more fuel.’ For a guy who doesn’t got any kids, you sure got the routine down cold. You’re kinda like everybody’s dad.”

  The name caught on stationwide, with Will Haarmann—he of the loathsome arm-wrestling table—being its biggest booster. Now even rookie cops were calling Jarsdel “Dad.” They did so innocently, copying their superiors, likely believing it was a title that connoted respect or deference. Jarsdel then had to correct them—an unpleasant, awkward exchange for both parties.

  “By the way,” he said as he headed toward the door. “The department hired a civilian. Some kind of behaviorist. Guess the city council and police commission are concerned we’re making them look bad. She’s gonna be meeting with every sworn officer in Hollywood Station. Just letting you know because you’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “What? No, fuck off.”

  Jarsdel shrugged. “Gavin’s gonna lean on you, then. He thinks she walks on water. I’m seeing her Friday to get it over with.”

  “Why? What’s the point? I don’t wanna go talk to nobody. ’Specially someone Gavin thinks is hot shit.”

  “She’s gonna work with us on implementing some new crime-prevention strategies. It’s all very esoteric sounding. But according to Barnhardt, she knows what she’s doing.”

  “I’m not doing any of this trendy, feel-me-hear-me-touch-me stuff. Why does everyone always wanna complicate police work? Fucking Mickey Mouse bullshit.”

  “Had a feeling the news would perk you up.” Jarsdel reached for the knob, then paused, frowning at it. “Did you do hand sanitizer or anything? I don’t know if I wanna touch that.”

  “Not contagious anymore. I don’t think, anyway. Shit, maybe I got valley fever, and this is the last you’re gonna see of me.”

  “Can you open it?”

  “I’m not getting up.”

  Jarsdel sighed and gave the knob a quick twist, then wiped his hand on his pants. He turned back to Morales. “Get better soon. Work’s just not the same without your boundless good cheer.”

  Morales had his eyes closed again, but he still managed to raise a middle-finger salute. Jarsdel made sure to close the door just a little harder than necessary on his way out.

  * * *

  Over a month had passed since Jarsdel last saw his parents, and it hadn’t been pleasant for any of them. His dad, Robert, a retired lit professor who was beginning to look more and more like Orville Redenbacher, had stormed out of his own dining room. Robert’s husband, Darius Jahangir, whom Jarsdel called Baba, had departed from his usual Persian stoicism and broken a spatula against the dinner table.

  It had begun as a variation on the usual theme—Jarsdel’s career in law enforcement—with the same circular arguments, passive-aggressive wheedling, and icy looks from Baba. But Jarsdel hadn’t been in the mood that night, and Dad had seemed determined to force a confrontation.

  “How do you do it, Tully?” he’d asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Talk to that partner of yours all day. What’s his name again?”

  Jarsdel blinked at his father. “Morales.”

  “Right. He doesn’t even have a BA, does he? An associate degree, I think you said it was. Criminal justice or criminal persecution or whatever they call it. I can’t imagine what you two discuss. I mean, there are only so many times you can sing ‘Wheels on the Bus.’” Dad laughed, sending a blast of hot, wine-soaked breath into his son’s face.

  Jarsdel put down his knife and fork, steepled his fingers, and spoke with as much calm as he could muster. “Dad. It is very, very important you—”

  “Here we go.” His father shook his head, smiling sadly. “You’ve lost your sense of humor. Along with everything else.”

  “Dad,” Jarsdel repeated. “It is absolutely imperative you hear me on this. Are you listening?”

  “A pedibus usque ad caput.”

  “Good. Because this is the last time we’re going to have this conversation. For two reasons. One, I fi
nd the subject utterly tiresome. That should really be enough, I think, but you may not agree. So I’ll add another. When you make remarks as profoundly stupid, as fractally wrong as—”

  “You’re so boring when you get self-righteous.”

  “—as fractally wrong as the one you just made, you seem to be flirting with sophomania. And that depresses me, because I know you really are brilliant. But when you so pompously blunder into areas you know nothing about, when you squirt out these inanities, you sound like a dumb person pretending to be smart.”

  The color drained from his father’s face. He folded his napkin into a neat little tent and stood. “Pretending to be smart? All right. Why don’t you follow me, and we can take a look at some of my pretend degrees.”

  “Good God. Did you hear anything I just said?”

  Baba finally spoke up. “He heard you insult him.”

  Dad adjusted his glasses. “How this job has hardened you. You never would have dreamt of speaking to me that way before. Extraordinary. But I suppose if being a policeman can coarsen as refined a person as you, then it’s no wonder the depravities your profession arouses in its lesser lights.”

  “I’m speechless,” said Jarsdel.

  “If only you were,” said Dad.

  “Think I’m gonna leave.”

  “Seems like a fine idea.”

  “You’ve officially abandoned coherent thought.”

  “Oh, go fuck yourself.” Dad swept out, slamming the dining room’s French doors. But they didn’t catch, swinging lazily open again and giving Jarsdel a final glimpse of his father—a thin, bent man clutching a handkerchief to his face as he ascended the stairs. For the first time in his life, Jarsdel thought his father looked old.

  There was a terrific crack, and he turned in time to see the head of the spatula used to serve that evening’s fish course go spinning into the air. He wasn’t sure what had happened, then noticed the remaining handle poking up from his baba’s fist.

  Jarsdel was astonished. Baba pointed the spatula handle at him like an épée. “Out.”