“Murder?” asks Matt.
“The two overdose deaths at the Summer of Eternal Love festival,” says DA Saffalo. “Grail could be looking at life in prison.”
Matt tries to imagine life in prison. Minutes ago, he had broken into a clammy sweat at the idea of a year in the Youth Leadership Center at Juvenile Hall. But the rest of his life in prison? That, he cannot imagine.
Neither can he imagine doing what Furlong asks him to do.
“You’re going to help us set up and take down Johnny Grail,” says Furlong. “Or we will be forced to arrest you and your mother for pretty much the same charges we’ll bring against Grail and the Brotherhood of Eternal Love. Which will mean the Youth Leadership Center for you, and the new women’s jail in Santa Ana for Julie. Nice place. Brand new. Set to open in a couple of months.”
Matt sits, stunned.
The door opens and one of the police dispatch operators comes in. She’s walking fast, leaning forward at the waist, casting furtive eyes around the room. Goes to Chief Hein, cups a hand to whisper something in his ear. He takes the news without expression. Nods slightly. Waits. When she’s done, she leaves as quickly as she came, with a quick look at Matt.
Hein sighs deeply. “Laguna Beach PD has engaged a suspected drug supplier in South Laguna, just minutes ago. The officer fired in self-defense and the suspect died at the scene. He’s a local man, Luke Lucas. They call him Hamsa Luke. You must know him, Matt. He worked at Mystic Arts World.”
Matt can barely hear Chief Hein’s words through the rushing in his ears.
He’s terrified by this news, but not surprised by it. It had to happen to someone, didn’t it?
He can bear no more. Something inside him breaks loose of its moorings.
“I need to use the bathroom,” he says.
The chief looks to Furlong, who walks Matt to the station visitors’ restroom.
“Matt, I’m sorry about your friend.”
“I don’t believe you. And he wasn’t my friend but I liked him.”
“I truly am. But listen — you’re doing well in there. We’re almost done.”
“Okay.”
“You’re going to like my game plan.”
A minute later Matt is pulling off a paper towel to dry his hands. He looks at himself in the mirror, which is not glass but stainless steel, because glass can be a weapon. It gives his face a funny lopsided shape. His heart is pounding and his breath is short. He takes in a big breath, lets it out slowly, then again.
He prays: God, this is Matt. Let Furlong not be there when I go out, and I’ll do anything you want, forever. Amen.
And when he steps from the bathroom, Furlong is in fact not there. Matt looks down the hallway, sees the conference room door ajar.
Anything you want! Thank you!
He nods to the young desk officer on his way through the lobby, and tries to look casual on his way out.
Thirty seconds and he’s pulling the Westfalia away from the Third Street curb — his heart racing and the exhaust pipe sputtering — headed for he knows not where.
Someplace they won’t think to look for him.
He stops at a pay phone and digs out change to call Tommy Amici. Stands inside the hot glass booth, hands shaking. It seriously bums him out to have to give Tommy this news, but Furlong will be all over Matt if he tries to do his paper route today.
Matt has never been wanted by the cops. And he’s never been threatened with juvie or by anyone as frightening as Dr. Hamilton. Combined, they give him a gnawing, knee-melting feeling. He won’t be able to show his face for more than a moment in Dodge, or near his father’s Third Street rental, or at Mystic Arts World, unless he uses the Bat Cave that Johnny Grail probably shouldn’t have told him about. He can’t do his paper route. Can’t go to South Coast Hospital for more than a quick, paranoid visit with his mom. Can’t park the Westfalia anyplace where Furlong would think to look for it.
And where will he sleep?
He’s got just under five dollars to his name, the ten-dollar down payment on the Wyatt Earp revolver having cut deeply into his finances. A motel would empty his wallet quick. And what about food? Have to catch some serious fish to both eat and cut costs, he thinks.
But from his mouth come words he never thought he’d say:
“Tommy, I can’t do the route for a few days. Can you cover for me?”
“What? You haven’t missed a day in over two years!”
“I know. I’m sorry. Give me two days, Tommy.”
Silence. “Is this about Jasmine?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus! Jesus. Matt, I can cover your route today and tomorrow. I’ll do that for you and for her. But if you’re not back on your bike day after tomorrow, I’ll have to hire a new kid. There’s a waiting list, Matt. I can’t keep a route open for someone who’s not showing up. My boss won’t let me. You’ve won an Outstanding Carrier medal two years running. Now this?”
“I appreciate it, Tommy.”
“Have you talked to her again? Is she okay?”
“I heard from her, kind of.”
“Two days, Matt — that’s all I can give you.”
“The cops killed Hamsa Luke.”
“When? Why?”
“I don’t know. South Laguna.”
“There were rumors about him.”
“There’s rumors about everybody.”
“He seemed like a cool guy.”
Matt hangs up.
48
He parks the Westfalia well away from Moss Point, where Furlong might not look, squeezing into a shady spot between a dusty Fairlane and a pickup truck.
KFWB news says suspected narcotics kingpin Luke Lucas was one of several “high-level drug dealers” caught in a raid on a South Laguna home. Eighty pounds of marijuana confiscated. Five arrested.
Matt thinks of Luke at Mystic Arts telling Matt he looked like something that just evolved from the sea onto dry land.
Thinks of Luke telling him that the Hamsa tattooed across his knuckles protected him from the evil eye.
But it couldn’t protect you from bullets, Matt thinks. Drugs might be fun and profit for the Brotherhood but to the cops they were deadly business.
Hamsa Luke dead for a few bales of grass.
Matt wonders if they’d shoot him too, what with Furlong’s drug-riddled tomatoes and Tibetan books, French toffees, and acid-drenched Summer of Eternal Love invitations?
He turns off the news, sits for a moment looking out the window at the traffic on Coast Highway, down below. He knows that the key to dodging Furlong is to not be in one obvious place for long.
He secures his fishing rod, tackle box, sketchbook, and lunch to the Heavy-Duti. He’s facing a risky half mile of exposure, but all he can do is hope Furlong doesn’t guess he’ll use one of his secret fishing spots to hide out.
He launches for Moss Point, riding close to the curb, staying away from the open asphalt. At PCH he times the traffic and cuts right behind a speeding Mustang convertible blasting “Satisfaction.”
Pushing the bike through the sand at Moss Point, Matt sees that the swell is strong and from the south. He gets to his secret spot, a patch of beach safe from high tide, surrounded by big rocks and hard to get to — especially pushing a heavy bicycle.
He arrives with great relief. The sharp black boulders are the walls of a fortress. The sun is warm on his back. There’s an old fire pit outlined with rocks, with damp ashes and blackened bits of driftwood inside. He’d be folding his newspapers right now, if not for becoming a fugitive. He liked The Fugitive on TV more than he likes being one.