Eli (3 page)

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D.A. office. She was tough, uncompromising, and, above all else, a woman of integrity. Everyone knew it. And in this age of corrupt politics and voter cynicism, some folks were already considering the possibility of grooming her for office.

She glanced at her watch. It was 4:40 A.M. She closed her eyes, hoping sleep would return. They’d be landing in L.A.

in two hours. Then it would be a matter of renting a car and heading up the coast to the Conejo Valley Medical Center, a hospital in Thousand Oaks not far from Camarillo where three, now four days earlier, her father had been in a serious car accident. “Critical head trauma,” they’d said. “Extensive internal injuries.” Initially they hadn’t expected him to live through that first night. Somehow he had, but no one gave any hope for his recovery. Today, this evening, sometime very soon he would die.

But that’s not why Julia was heading back to California.

She’d barely spoken to the man in five years, and she was in no hurry to race to his side for some sort of artificial recon-ciliation. She was in no mood for a teary-eyed forgiveness scene with a comatose patient who couldn’t hear and wasn’t interested. No, that’s not why she was headed home. If she had her way, she wouldn’t show up until the funeral, if then.

Julia was heading home because, a few years earlier, when she’d graduated from law school, her father had had the bright idea of giving her power of attorney. It was an honor she had immediately declined, but one that his most recently divorced wife (Rosy, Rosette, Rosa, whatever her name was) had said he’d continued to assign to her anyway. An honor that, among other things, made Julia the sole person responsible for deciding whether her father should remain on life support systems or die. According to the State of California, if a person is unable to make that decision himself, then it falls solely and completely upon the one to whom he has assigned the power of attorney.

So—entirely against her wishes, but living by the code her father had instilled, Julia was traveling cross-country to hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 14

14 view his condition firsthand before giving the doctors permission to pull the plug. She sighed wearily. Even in death he remained an intrusion upon her life.

Minutes passed, and the dull roar of the plane once again lulled her into semisleep. And another dream. But this one was based upon the clear, vivid memories of her seventh birthday. It was a typical Southern California day, bright and clear. They were in a park with rolling hills and a hundred trees. Wind blew against her face and through her hair. And she was flying, soaring . . .

“Daddy
,” she half laughed, half screamed, “
don’t let go!”

She gripped the shiny handlebars of her new bicycle with all of her might. “
Don’t let go! Don’t let go of me!”

He ran behind her, hand on the seat, keeping her upright.

She could hear his panting.
“I won’t let go of you,”
he laughed.
“I won’t let go.”

They hit a bump and she wobbled.
“Daddy!”

“I’m right here,”
he laughed.

“Don’t let go!”
she shrieked.

“I’m right here, Sweetheart. Trust me, I won’t let go!”

She was sailing, zooming, never traveling so fast in her life. The blades of grass blurred under her wheels. Her heart pounded with thrill and fear until—

Suddenly, Julia awoke again. She took a deep breath and brought her seat upright. There would be no more sleeping.

Not for her. And there would be no more dreams. Especially of her father. She’d see to that. Even if she stayed up the rest of the night, there would be no more dreaming about the man.

He didn’t deserve it.

v

Conrad Davis awoke standing. Time had passed, he knew that. But he didn’t know how much. It was still raining, but now it was night. It was night and he was standing in the middle of a city street. There was no Jaguar, no big rig, and no sheer rock wall. Instead, a horn honked as a car raced past, missing him by inches. He spun around and was met by another vehicle coming from the opposite direction. The hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 15

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driver swerved hard and tires squealed. A moment later there was a sickening thud followed by tinkling glass and a stuck horn that began to blare. The car had slid into another parked at the curb. Conrad frantically looked about, trying to get his bearings. Some of the shops and buildings appeared familiar, like those in Santa Monica, a beach city he frequented just west of L.A. But many of the others—

A siren blasted. He twirled around and was blinded by a pair of high beams coming directly at him. For the briefest moment he froze, unsure what to do. The vehicle jerked to a halt fifteen feet away. Doors opened. Dark figures emerged, starting toward him. That’s when Conrad found his legs. He turned, darting to the right, heading for the sidewalk. An oncoming car hit its brakes, swerved hard, and barely missed him—before plowing into the other two disabled vehicles.

Voices shouted, others cursed, and the dark figures began pursuit. The blaring horn made it impossible for Conrad to hear what was being yelled, but he knew they were not happy. He hit the curb, stumbling slightly, before turning to his right and racing down the sidewalk. The voices continued, no doubt demanding he stop. But he was not stopping.

Not for them. Not for anybody. Where was he? What was going on?

Up ahead and across the street he saw Santa Monica’s Mayfair Theater. So he was in Santa Monica. But how? And what of these other buildings and shops he didn’t recognize?

He continued running, passing two or three pedestrians, kids walking in the rain—long stringy hair, beads, embroidered bell-bottoms, looked like they’d stepped right out of the sixties.

The footsteps behind him were gaining. To his left was an alley; he turned so hard his feet nearly slipped, but he caught his balance and continued running.

“Stop!” the voices behind him shouted. “We order you to stop!”

Conrad bore down. He wasn’t sure how much farther he could go. It had been a long time since he’d sprinted like this.

His lungs were already crying out for air.

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Headlights swept in and bounced behind him, illuminat-ing the alley. He heard a car accelerate, knew he couldn’t out-run it. It would be over in seconds. He’d be struck from behind, knocked to the ground, maybe run over. The car roared closer. Then, out of the corner of his left eye, he could see the headlights. Instead of hitting him, it was pulling beside him.

“Get in!” another voice shouted.

He turned to see an old Volkswagen bus, handpainted with fluorescent flowers. The passenger’s window was rolled down, and a black kid with a full-blown Afro was shouting,

“Get in!”

Now he heard other voices, younger. “Come on! Jump in!

Hurry!” The bus pulled ahead to reveal two more kids, a guy and a girl, dressed in hippie garb similar to the pedestrians he’d seen. They leaned out the open side door, reaching for him. “Take my hand!” they shouted. “Come on, man! They’re right behind you!”

There was a loud thump on the back of the bus. Then another. The kids looked past Conrad in wide-eyed fear.

“Stop!” a voice behind him shouted. It was less than two yards away. “I order you to stop!”

Another thump, this time followed by the shattering of glass.

“Oh, man,” the girl moaned. She turned to the driver, shouting, “The pigs just busted your taillight, man.”

“Take my hand!” her companion reached out further to Conrad. “Take it now!”

Conrad had no choice. Whoever pursued him had bats or rocks or something equally as painful, and these kids—well, at least they wanted to help. He threw them another glance.

“Take my hand, man! Take my hand!”

It was now or never. He veered toward the VW bus, then tried leaping inside. Unfortunately,
tried
was the operative word. It wasn’t as easy as it looked. He barely caught his left knee on the edge, before the weight of the rest of his body began twisting him away, pulling him off. There was nothing hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 17

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he could do except hope he’d roll free of the wheels and not fall under them. That’s when each kid grabbed him by an arm and pulled with all of their might. He wasn’t a heavy man, but heavy enough. At last they succeeded, and he flew into the bus, landing face first into green shag carpeting, gasping for air.

“We got him!” the kids shouted. “Step on it, man! Let’s go, let’s go!”

The bus accelerated as they shut the door.

“You okay, mister?” The young woman leaned over him.

“You all right?”

Conrad wanted to answer, but at the moment he had more important things to do—like breathe. The bus continued to bounce and sway as the young man from the back shouted directions. “Right up there! Turn right up there, man!”

When he’d finally caught his breath, Conrad attempted to sit up.

“Here, let me help,” the girl said. She was a sweet thing, seventeen, eighteen, straight blond hair, peasant blouse pulled off the shoulders, and bracelets. Lots of jangling bracelets.

There were no seats in the back, just the green shag carpeting, a mattress with a coarse Mexican blanket pulled across it, and eight-track tapes—a half-dozen eight-track tapes scattered along the side. Beads swayed back and forth over the windows, and a sweet pungent odor filled the air.

Although Conrad hadn’t smelled it in years, he immediately recognized it as pot.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You don’t know where you are?” the blond said.

“Am I . . . dead? Am I in Heaven?”

The group broke into laughter.

“That’s a good one, man,” the kid up front chuckled. “No, mister, you ain’t dead, at least not yet.”

“But we could definitely show you some Heaven,” the young man beside him said as he pulled out a few pills from his leather vest.

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Conrad recognized them for what they were. “No, uh, thanks. I don’t, uh . . .”

“Not your thing?” The kid smiled.

“No . . .”

He shrugged. “Tha’s cool.”

Conrad’s head swam. What was going on? A dream? A hallucination? No, this was too real. He glanced out the window.

And the buildings. Some looked so familiar. He’d spent lots of time in Santa Monica. In fact, weren’t they on . . . yes, they were on Arizona Street, heading east. He turned back to the blond.

“Is this Santa Monica?”

“Sure is,” she smiled. Her eyes were bloodshot and watery.

She either had a bad case of allergies or was stoned. Conrad guessed the latter.

The kid beside her called up to the driver, “Turn right up here at Third.”

Conrad looked back out the window. “Actually”—he cleared his throat—“you can’t turn right at Third. It’s the mall.”

“The what?”

“The outdoor mall. It’s been there since the eighties.”

“Nice pants,” the girl said. Suddenly Conrad was distracted by a playful hand on his leg. “What are they?”

“These?” Conrad glanced down. “Just some, uh, Dockers.”

“What-ers?”

“Dockers.”

“Never heard of ’em.”

The leather-vested youth wrapped his arm around the girl’s shoulders just in case there was any miscommunication. “Crys-tal here, she wants to be a clothes designer. Pretty good, too.

Made me this vest.” He reached down and lifted the beaded tassels along its edge.

Conrad nodded and looked back out the window. They were at Third Street and to his astonishment, making a right.

There was no mall, just the continuation of the street.

“So what were the pigs after you for?” the driver called back.

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“Pigs?”

“Our esteemed law enforcement officers.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Could be anything these days,” the kid with the Afro said. “They’re so jumpy with the protesters and all.”

“Maybe they saw those UFO things, too,” the girl offered.

“UFOs?” Conrad asked.

“If that’s what they were,” her boyfriend interjected. He looked through the windshield and suddenly called, “Hold on—that’s it up there.” He pointed ahead. “Right there, man.

Pull up right there.”

“Got it,” the driver answered as he slowed the van and pulled it to a stop.

They were in front of a rundown, seedy building—blue cinderblock walls, front steps covered in green Astroturf, bright pink doors. Overhead, a neon sign, partially burned out, blinked:
MOT L . . . MOT L . . . MOT L
.

“All right,” the kid with the Afro announced as he opened the door and stepped outside. “Everyone stay cool till I find out what’s happening.” He headed up the steps into the lobby.

Conrad glanced down the street. He was sure this is where the mall had been. In fact, some evenings, just to unwind, he’d come down here to hit the bookshop, listen to the musicians, and sip a café latte while watching the street entertainers.

Where was he? What was going on? And who were these kids? These throwbacks to the sixties?

Up on a billboard just down the street, a woman stood in a black, one-piece bathing suit drinking a bottle of cola.

Above her, the slogan read: “Keep tab with Tab.” Conrad closed his eyes and reopened them. That’s what it said. “Keep tab with Tab.” And the bottle she was drinking from had

“Tab” written on it. Tab? Wasn’t that a diet soft drink of the sixties?

He glanced down the street at the passing autos, and those parked along the curb. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t a hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 20

20 late model in the bunch. Nothing past 1970. And the license plates? He squinted at the license tab of a nearby American Rambler. It read:
April 1970.

What was going on? Was someone playing a joke? Was he losing his mind? Or had he . . . no, he pushed the thought out of his head. Again he found himself looking back up at the billboard. It was crazy, and he was embarrassed even thinking it, but these kids, their van, the disappearance of the mall, the cars, this billboard. Was it possible? No, it was just a dream, an elaborate hallucination. No way could he have possibly traveled back in—