Killer Rock

CHAPTER ONE

Fawn heard Chloe shouting from the magazine rack out in front of the beachside mini-mart, where Chloe stood staring at her own face smiling from the cover of Who News. Inside, Fawn slammed six copies down on the checkstand, along with a crumpled twenty. Her charm bracelet clanked on the marred wood.

Hey girl, Chloe’s really mad. It was Cynthia. Fawn turned toward the door, where a dark SUV blocked the June sun.

About what? Fawn stuffed her magazines in her Lincoln High backpack and shoveled change into her jeans pocket.

Cynthia shook her bottle-bleached hair. It’s not like Chloe to get mad. She yelled, ‘I hardly even know you and I’m not going with you!’ Not our best bud at all.

Fawn headed toward the door. That’s when Chloe screamed. Fawn hit the threshold only to stare into the sun. Both Chloe and the SUV were gone. On the ground lay Chloe’s prize possession, Jerry’s letterman sweater. Fawn snatched it up along with what looked like a plastic tube and ran to the end of the gravel parking lot. The SUV had made a left over the curb and was in the right hand turn lane at 3rd Street.

Fawn ran back inside the store. Hey! It was a shaky attempt to get attention in the crowd of sweaty graduates elbowing each other to get to the refrigerator. Hey, does anybody in here have a car? I think maybe somebody kidnapped Chloe.

Cynthia turned with an ice cream bar in her hand. Really? Oh God. Randy’s motorcycle is in the shop again. We’re on foot.

Fawn nodded. Somebody? Anybody?!

A strong slender arm hooked her thin shoulder. She smelled perspiration and spicy cologne. A familiar voice said, I’m game. Get in the blue car out front. I’ll be out in a sec.

Fawn turned to a long-haired guy about her height. The school disc jockey. Thank you! Steve, right? The voice of Lincoln High?

Steve grabbed a sweating can of Coke. He took in Fawn’s long twiglike frame and unruly blond hair.

He pointed. Fawn . . . dancer.

She was backstepping toward the door. Yeah, Fawndancer. My Indian name. The SUV is turning onto 3rd. We need to catch it.

Right there, Steve swore.

Fawn opened the passenger door of an old Cavalier and looked at the sadly collapsed passenger’s seat. There was electronic equipment stacked up on towels and blankets in the back seat. They’d graduated. Steve would be taking his stuff home. She tossed her backpack on the floor and scooted onto complaining springs as Steve climbed in the driver’s side and turned the key. He popped open the soda and sucked up the escaping fizz. 3rd Street.

As they squealed out of the parking lot with a new Acura on their tail, Fawn craned her neck. They’re just now turning. We can catch them.

Steve was on 3rd. An old Fiat and a red Caravan full of kids separated them from the black Escalade. I assume we’re talking about Chloe Swanson here. Our new local celebrity.

"Yeah. We were buying copies of Who News when Cynthia Bell told me Chloe was outside arguing with somebody. I heard a scream and Chloe was gone. Except for this. Fawn held up Jerry’s sweater. This belonged to her boyfriend, and she wears it everywhere. He gave it to her when he moved up north. She had it tied around her waist today. And I found this underneath."

Steve glanced and identified the tube in Fawn’s fingers. Whoa whoa whoa! He grabbed the tube and stepped on the brake. There are paper towels under your feet. Hand me a couple.

Fawn did as Steve said and watched him turn over and wipe off the object. A hypodermic needle.

It’s still leaking.

You think somebody used it on Chloe?

Steve wedged the towel-wrapped needle behind Fawn’s seat. I think we need to call the cops.

Fawn gasped, choked, and went into a coughing fit.

Steve glanced over. You okay? Want my Coke?

I have trouble with cops. But I’ll do it. Just give me a—just a minute. There were tears in her eyes and her face had gone red. A pain shot behind her right eye. Fawn drew her legs up into a fetal position and smacked her vintage cell with a trembling hand.

The Manhattan Beach Police Department’s number is in a small blue book in the glove box. Steve followed the SUV from 3rd Street onto Pacific Coast Highway. I’ll call if you want, Fawn. Not a problem for me.

Fawn shook her head and punched the number into her phone. Her voice was tearful and shaky. I know she’s eighteen, but somebody kidnapped her. She needs help. No, I don’t think it’s a prank. There was a pause and Fawn wiped mascara tears from under her eyes. I’m not going to lose sight of the SUV to bring you the needle. Can’t you please get somebody to pull over the Escalade? At least check it out? She glanced at Steve and saw that his jaw muscles were clenched. She didn’t just go off with friends. She was arguing with somebody! I heard her scream! The conversation ended with Fawn snapping her cell phone shut and letting out one long sob. They said they’ll have somebody pull over the SUV when they have time.

Steve exhaled, stomped on the gas and changed lanes to a squeal of brakes and several car horns. Guess we’re on our own.

As Fawn threw her phone into her backpack, a rescue inhaler slid out. Steve looked down as Fawn quickly struggled to jam it back down inside.

Is it hard to dance when you have asthma?

Fawn zippered her pack. I don’t know. I don’t think I know a dancer with asthma.

You’ve got an inhaler.

Oh, that’s for other people. If they need it. You know.

Steve shook the confusion from his head. I’ll bet you carry safety pins and Bandaids and a spare toothbrush, too.

Sun glanced off the filthy white Beemer in front of them, and Fawn put her hand to her eyes. No. It’s in memory of Karen. It’s a superstition. And something only Chloe, Cynthia, and my grandma know about.

Steve’s attempt at sounding gay was sad, at best. Oh, do tell, girlfriend. I just love secrets.

Fawn was annoyed with herself. The inhaler always stayed in its little pouch at the bottom of her backpack. Well, it had until now. "When I was about four, I lived with Mom and her very temporary boyfriend and his daughter. Karen. She was a couple years older than me and had asthma. She had it bad.

One night Mom was at the gym and David was watching Karen and me. We’d taken our evening dose of vitamins, done our exercises, and David had us in our p.j.s. He shooed us into bed.

Evening dose?

So many vitamins I used to throw up half of them. He was a fitness freak. He had Mom at the gym twice a day, even if it meant going in the middle of the night. The muscles in the sides of Fawn’s neck tightened at the memory of her mother dragging home, dark circles under her eyes, sometimes too tired to speak.

Karen had an asthma attack, and David told her to just breathe, that she could do it. She shook her head no and grabbed her inhaler. It was empty. I said I’d get her another one—Mom kept one in every drawer in the house—but David stopped me. He handed me the empty and said, ‘She doesn’t need a puffer. She’s my daughter and she can breathe.’ Well, obviously she couldn’t, but David shoved me back onto my bed with a foot to the chest and shouted at Karen to just breathe.

Steve swung the wheel to avoid a fat redhead texting on her Smartphone. Sounds like a nice guy.

He just kept yelling at her to breathe. Eventually she took this tiny final gasp and just lay there, staring at the ceiling. At least that’s what I thought. He said, ‘See? She’s nice and relaxed now. God, I hate weaklings.’ The car moved into the tunnel of a stray cloud patch. I figured he was right. I was four. I’d never seen a dead person before. Not even at my dad’s funeral. Mom thought it would ‘scar’ me. And Karen’s eyes were open. Fawn talked with her hand protecting her chest, charm bracelet jingling in punctuation. David turned to me and said, ‘If you say one word to the cops, you’re next.’ And every time I moved or tried to speak, he’d repeat it: ‘If you say one word to the cops, you’re next.’

Fawn, that is gross. Oh jeez, that is so far beyond gross. He dodged around a gardener’s truck that was going about ten miles an hour. Illegal immigrants always obeyed the traffic laws in Southern California.

David went into the living room; I could hear the TV go on. I got up, plucked an inhaler from Karen’s dresser drawer, and laid it in her hand. That didn’t work, so I snuck into the kitchen to use the phone, but David had taken it out of its cradle. I guess he had it with him for insurance.

The SUV was three cars ahead, and more clouds were gathering. I hope this story ends well, Fawn, because you’ve got me laughing to tears right now.

I crept out the back door and started running to Grandma Julie’s house, hanging onto the empty inhaler. It was only three blocks, but it was dark and I was confused. You know the payphone on 9th Street? I pulled the receiver down but couldn’t reach to dial 9-1-1, so I punched 0, like Julie had taught me. I told the operator I needed to get to my grandma’s house. Cops were there almost immediately; I guess they didn’t like the idea that a four-year-old kid was out alone at nine at night. I wouldn’t talk to them because of what David had said. Finally a neighbor told them I was Julie Savoy’s granddaughter and gave them directions.

Didn’t they wonder why you were out in your pajamas?

Yeah, but I wouldn’t explain. I mean, David had threatened me about talking to cops. Julie opened the front door, scooped me up, and said, ‘She sleepwalks.’ There was an exchange, but I just hid my face in her hair and hung onto Karen’s empty inhaler.

Her puffer.

Yeah, her puffer. I told Julie that I’d given Karen a new puffer, but Julie was already dialing David and Mom’s number. It went to voice mail. Then I think she called 9-1-1; I’m not sure. I fell asleep on the sofa and woke up when the cops showed up a couple of hours later. They’d gotten past David and found Karen. They wanted to talk to me, but David had threatened me, so I just shook my head. A female officer took me into the bedroom and checked me for bruises—she saw the inhaler I was still hanging onto and wanted to know if I’d taken it from Karen. The next morning I was questioned at the police department, but I was too scared to talk. David tried to accuse me of taking the puffer and killing Karen, but nobody believed him.

Steve plucked a pair of shades from his visor as Fawn continued. Karen’s death was written off as accidental, because she had a full inhaler in her hand. All I could think was, ‘If you talk to the cops, you’re next.’ And I knew Karen was gone. Julie was in and out and on the phone and screaming at Mom for the next week, before Karma stepped in.

I assume you mean the concept, instead of somebody named Karma. Steve tapped the gas gauge and it sprang up to half a tank.

When the cops took David away, he left Mom with the lease and the pets. Grandma Julie said that when David had done eighteen months for some sort of child neglect, he took Karen’s ashes and a carry-on, and caught a flight to Florida. The plane made an emergency landing and David wasn’t buckled in properly, hit his head, and died a week later.

Steve unsuccessfully tried to stifle a laugh. So you and your mom lived happily ever after.

Jeez, no! I stayed at Julie’s. I never even went back for my things. Mom brought some clothes over and said she’d see me that weekend. She didn’t show. I’m sure Julie talked to child welfare services about Mom and her boyfriends. I talked to three or four social workers. Anyhow, something happened. And you know? I was glad. It’s been so easy to live with Julie and Eric.

You miss your mom?

Not really. I never got to know her in the first place. I’d always been left with her boyfriends and other roommates. We talk sometimes. Awkward small talk.

They were two cars behind the SUV. You still have Karen’s empty puffer?

It’s on my nightstand. Fawn was twisting Jerry’s sweater. Hmm. Looks like Chloe got a new stud pin. It’s got the Calliope’s Children logo on it. They must have given it to her backstage at the concert.

Steve glanced over to look at the half dozen pins stuck through the worn white yarn. Radio contests are notorious for loading winners down with stuff. In my experience, usually junk. That pin’s kind of nice, though.

Fawn was picking at it with a manicured nail. Nuh uh. Cheap. Look at how the logo kind of peels up.

Steve screeched to a stop when the light turned yellow. The last thing they needed was to get pulled over by some cowboy wanting to meet his ticket quota. The SUV was stuck at the light ahead. He did a double take on the sweater before grabbing it from Fawn. This snaps together. And there’s a chip inside.

No. That doesn’t make any sense.

Well, yeah it does. I’ve seen these before. Chloe isn’t sucking on a cold one in the back of that SUV. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to kidnap her when and where they did. She was Lojacked.

CHAPTER TWO

A shot of sun pierced a tiny window in Santa Rosa, Mexico, and lit the photo of a pretty girl with bright green eyes. The short, middle-aged man was picking out the last notes of a song he’d written in memory of another girl—a dark-skinned beauty who’d been murdered years ago, after sneaking backstage during her work shift at the Forum in Southern California, where Calliope’s Children had just finished an SRO gig. He liked her hair—long and dark. His own hair was straight and brown—nondescript.

He knew his music didn’t sound as good on his favorite electric guitar as it did on his acoustics, because Father wouldn’t let him plug it in. But it was the only one of his well-worn guitars that Reese had sent to him, which made it magic—it connected him to Reese. His fingers froze on the strings for a long minute before he shook his head and smacked his left ear. He needed to stop the information flooding in: Reese was doing something that was coming through to him. They were twins, and although they were nothing alike, there was a strong, strange connection. Cedric still felt it after all these years.

Reese had run away as a young teen, and Father and Inez seemed relieved, until Maria told Cedric that Reese was in California. Cedric wanted his twin back—or to be able to move back home like Reese had. But the only communication he had came through Maria. A doctor Inez knew—a man who knew to keep quiet—counseled Cedric about his loneliness and longing for his twin, but nothing helped. And even after over thirty years of living at the church and being with Father, Inez, Maria, and Father Aleman’s congregation, Cedric still felt very much alone.

Unlike Cedric, Reese was bright. An incredibly manipulative, fast-talking, street smart con artist. Physically strong and mentally ingenious. A perfect human, his father said, if it weren’t for the severe psychosis.

He, on the other hand, had been diagnosed as an autistic-savant. He could only read and write at a fifth grade level, stammered when he spoke, and was frightened of strangers. But in his fortysome years of life, he’d taught himself over a dozen musical instruments, written boxes full of remarkable music, and perfected his incredible stammer-free singing voice.

He’d just come into the church from his father’s house, on the other side of the yard. He needed to sit on his familiar worn cot and make music. It had been hard for him to please Father today. The older man had been impatient—upset about something. Cedric thought it was him. If only he could be smart, like Reese. But, he sighed, leaning back against the dingy wall, at least he had his music. He needed to start a new song—one for the girl with the brilliant green eyes. Reese had sent the photo and Cedric wanted this song to be special. He liked green eyes. They made him think of cats, and he loved the strays that he and Father and Inez fed at the church.

He didn’t really write the music. It came from somewhere else, and flowed through his mind and out his fingers. When Cedric made music he didn’t feel stupid or lonely or bad. He felt nothing.

CHAPTER THREE

When Dr. Ogden Marsh turned fifty, he stopped taking new patients. When he turned sixty, he moved his office into the front bedroom of his house. It was furnished in retro-chic, and he kept it spotlessly clean and comfortable. This afternoon, Dr. Marsh had been surprised when his old buddy and rock icon Jake McGuire stumbled through his front door, giggling, with tears streaming down his face.

Calliope’s Children, with blond and buffed-out Leo Carr as frontman, had been called America’s answer to the Rolling Stones in news articles across two continents in 1964. By 1970, however, group dynamics had changed, and new frontman Jake had since been favorably compared to Mick Jagger.

Ogden was shaking his head at Jake. You’re stoned, buddy. I did my pharmacological research with you in the sixties and I know what you look and act like stoned. I understand. You lost your wife and are now engaged to get married again. We’re all getting older. A lot older. It’s stressful, and yeah, stress can kill you, but drugs will kill you faster. Just let me help you like I did before. You were clean for thirty-odd years and you can be again. Ogden was tall, classically handsome, and had a soothing, mellow voice, even when upset.

Leaning his long fit body forward from a red pleather armchair, dark curls flopping forward, Jake opened his mouth to answer, then grabbed Ogden’s vintage Coca Cola trashcan and vomited.

Ogden offered Jake a sip of water, stood back, and took a long look at his old friend. You never got sick from drugs.

Jake’s speech was slurred and he was clutching his side. I wouldn’t take drugs that made me feel like this.

You don’t typically look scared, either.

Jake shook his curls. "I’m sick. But only on and off. It happens suddenly and stops just as fast. And I’m afraid I’m going to lose it on stage. Or in public. If the press thinks I’m using again, or if they find out I’m sick, Calliope’s Children is going to lose credibility. And fans. Nobody’s going to chase after an old