When Darkness Falls (3 page)

A licia didn’t feel the cold night air until she switched off her cell phone.

The bar was packed and noisy, so she’d been forced to step outside and call Vince from the sidewalk. Miracle Mile was an upscale shopping boulevard, the heart of downtown Coral Gables. This time of year, it had that eclectic mix of palm trees and Christmas decorations-colored lights everywhere, storefront windows frosted with artificial snow, reindeer and candy canes suspended from lampposts. The bar at Houston’s Restaurant drew a twentysomething crowd on Thursday nights, and the waiting line wrapped all the way around the corner to the valet stand. The singles on queue seemed to eye one another with added interest. This was definitely snuggle weather. Alicia was the only person on the block without a coat. She felt like one of those Jersey girls who ended up on the evening news each year, determined to show off her new bikini and steal a suntan despite forty-degree temperatures without the wind chill.

Alicia wasn’t out on the prowl. Thursdays were her nights out with old girlfriends, a chance to break away from a shrinking social life that seemed to revolve more and more around being a cop. All the guys stepped aside and checked her out as she went back inside. She drew dirty looks from several women who assumed she was using that hot body to cut in line. It was amazing how so much of society and basic social interaction was built on eye contact. That little observation just seemed to pop into her head for no reason at all. But things rarely happened without a reason. She was thinking about Vince, and her painful awareness that he could never again cut a glance across a room was exactly what had triggered her thoughts. She was suddenly angry with herself. He would push her away for good if he knew she was feeling sorry for him.

The bar seemed even louder and more crowded as Alicia forced her way back to her friends’ table. The effects of two-for-one margaritas were beginning to wear off, and she was already regretting the impulsive telephone call to Vince. She knew better than to let alcohol do the talking for her, but somehow it had worked out fine.

Finally, she reached her table, only to find a waiter clearing away empty glasses as five women settled up the bill.

“You owe sixteen twenty-five,” said Rebecca, never looking up from her miniature calculator. Rebecca had been Alicia’s friend since college, and she was still the same. Bills were divided to the exact penny.

Alicia checked the back of her chair for her purse, but it wasn’t there. She checked the floor around them and even under the table. “Did one of you girls grab my purse by accident?”

The others shrugged and looked at one another. No, uh-uh, not me.

“Well, shit,” said Alicia. “Somebody stole my purse.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I took my phone out to call Vince, and I left my purse right here on the back of my chair.” Presently, the back of her chair was up against some guy’s butt. Their table was surrounded-practically smothered-by a standing-room-only crowd. Someone could have easily brushed by the chair and lifted her purse without Alicia’s friends taking notice.

“I’ll cover your share of the bill,” said Rebecca. “Why don’t you check with the hostess? Maybe someone turned it in.”

“All right,” said Alicia, though she knew in her heart that it was more likely in the Dumpster and that some slob who now called himself Alicia Mendoza had already purchased a sixty-inch plasma TV with her credit card. It was a sea of humanity between her and the hostess. She had to turn herself sideways and rub against two dozen strangers before reaching the stand.

“Did anyone turn in a purse?” Alicia asked.

“What’s it look like?” asked the hostess.

“Black shoulder bag. Kate Spade.”

The hostess pulled the bag from beneath the counter just as Alicia’s friend emerged from the crowd. “You found it,” said Rebecca. “Where was it?”

The hostess said, “One of our waitresses found it in the ladies’ room.”

“I didn’t leave it in the ladies’ room,” said Alicia.

“Maybe it was one of your margaritas that left it there,” said Rebecca. “Check to see if anything’s missing.”

Alicia opened the bag, but the restaurant was almost too dark to see inside her purse. She and Rebecca went outside, and the cold night air hit them immediately. The temperature was dropping by the minute, but Alicia was flushed with adrenaline as she sifted through the contents of her purse. To her relief, her wallet was still there. The credit cards were still in place, and so was all her cash.

Rebecca snatched a twenty-dollar bill and said, “For the drinks. Now I owe you three seventy-five.”

Alicia stepped away before her friend could claim ownership to anything else. She checked the side pocket and the zipper pouch inside. “My lipstick is gone.”

“Yuck,” said Rebecca. “No offense, girl, but who would steal your lipstick?”

An uneasy feeling came over her. She imagined some pervert writing her initials on his balls with Dusty Rose No. 3. Probably an overreaction on her part, but the mind went in those directions when you were a cop. “Only one person I can think of.”

“You mean that guy on the bridge who wanted to talk to you? I thought he was in jail.”

“The station called right after I left work to tell me he was back on the street. Somehow he made bail.”

“If a homeless guy came wandering into Houston’s, wouldn’t somebody notice?”

“Maybe they cleaned him up before he left jail.”

“Enough to get into the ladies’ room? That’s where they found your purse, remember?”

“That’s true.”

“But it has to be him, doesn’t it? If it’s not, then who’s the lipstick bandit?”

Alicia’s gaze shifted back toward the restaurant. With the reflections off the huge plate-glass windows, the packed crowd seemed to double in size. “I have no idea,” she said.

T he night Falcon returned to the street was the coldest of the year.

It was well after dark before his lawyer finally posted the ten-thousand-dollar bail. Swyteck wanted to have a full and frank discussion with his client before springing him loose. Falcon wanted out of there immediately. Predictably, Swyteck turned on the social-worker speech, the deep concern for his downtrodden fellow man. Get yourself an apartment, Falcon. Get some warm clothes, get a life-for Pete’s sake, do something with all that money you have squirreled away in a safe deposit box. As if any lawyer really cared about his poor, homeless client. Falcon was no fool. He didn’t need to sit around and wait for Swyteck to work his way up to the obvious burning question. The guy was a lawyer, and he wouldn’t be much of a lawyer if he didn’t worry about where the money had come from. Not that those bastards didn’t take dirty money. Lawyers just knew well enough to take precautions before taking their take. Take, take, take.

“Back off, Swyteck!” he said aloud, speaking to no one. “You can’t have it.”

The Miami River was an inky black belt in the moonlight. It was quiet along the riverfront tonight, except for the cars whirring across the drawbridge. Rubber tires on metal always seemed louder in the cold, dry air. Falcon wasn’t sure why, and he didn’t care. He had to take a piss. He stopped beneath the bridge, unzipped, and waited. Nothing. The traffic noise from above was bothering him. Vehicles passing at the speed of light, one after another, quick little bursts that sounded like laser guns. It was breaking his concentration. His stream of water wasn’t what it used to be. It took a clear head and determination just to empty his bladder. He gritted his teeth and pushed. One squirt, dribble. Another squirt, more dribble. To think, this used to be fun. What the hell ever happened to the mighty swordsman who could hose down a park bench from ten feet away? Falcon hadn’t completely finished his business, but it was way too cold to keep your pecker hanging out all night. Especially when you were well compensated, right, Swyteck?

He buttoned up and prepared himself for the final leg of the journey. He was almost home. The bend in the river told him so. He loved living on the river. In fact, seventy-degree river water would feel mighty good on a night like tonight. A regular poor man’s hot tub-except that Falcon wasn’t poor. Ha! The rich are different. “Yeah, I’m good and different, all right,” he said to no one.

His breath nearly steamed in the crisp night air. It just kept getting colder. How was that possible? This was Miami, not Rochester. Swyteck had offered to drive him to a shelter, but Falcon was going home. Yeah, it was an abandoned car, but it still had all the comforts. Had himself a TV, a stereo, a toaster. He was sure they would still work, too, if only he had electricity. He could even have laid claim to a dishwasher, had he been able to lift the damn thing. The stuff people threw out was just amazing. Most trash wasn’t really trash at all, just things people got tired of having around the house. It wasn’t broken, wasn’t worn out, and sometimes it wasn’t even dirty. Out with the old, in with the new. Lawn mowers, radios, blenders, the Bushman. Especially the Bushman. That’s right, you heard me. You’re trash, Bushman! YOU ARE NOTHING BUT STINKING, SMELLING TRASH!

“Who you calling trash, mon?”

Falcon turned around. He was still standing under the bridge. His friend the Bushman was lying on the ground and glaring up at him. That crazy Jamaican was sucking the thoughts out of Falcon’s head again. Or maybe Falcon had been talking out loud without realizing it.

“Sorry,” said Falcon. “Didn’t mean nothing by it, buddy.”

The Bushman grumbled as he pulled himself up to the seated position. A tattered old blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. He had the thickest, longest dreadlocks of anyone outside of the Australian Bush, which was the reason Falcon called him the Bushman. Normally, those dreadlocks would hang down loose, all dirty and gnarly, like the tufted fleece of a yak. Tonight, however, they were wrapped around his head like a turban, held in place by an old metal colander that made a pretty nice helmet. His jeans were filthy, as usual, but the sweatshirt looked to be clean and in good shape.

“New sweatshirt?” said Falcon.

“Folks from the shelter came by an hour or so ago. Passed out some goodies.” He held up his hands to show off a pair of socks that he was wearing like gloves. “You missed out, mon.”

“They take anybody back with them?”

“Nope. Not a one of us.”

Just ahead, barely visible in the moonlight, a heap of cardboard started to stir. It was Uhm-Kate. Whenever anyone asked her name, the response was always, “Uhm, Kate.” She looked twice her normal size. It was a trick Falcon had taught her: stuff your clothes with old newspapers on cold nights. There were other ways to keep off the chill, but they usually came in a bottle.

“Hey, Falcon’s back,” she said.

More moving cardboard. The underbelly of the old drawbridge was like one big homeless slumber party. There was the Bushman, Uhm-Kate, half a dozen more. Eager as he was to get home, Falcon thought he might just stay here tonight, until he saw Johnny the Thief. He didn’t actually see him-just the glinting eyes in the darkness. It was the cough that revealed his identity. Johnny had one of those deep, lung-shredding coughs that hurt your ears just to hear it. He denied having AIDS, but everybody knew. When he first came to the street, he was Johnny the Pretty Boy. He wasn’t so pretty anymore. Now he was Johnny the Thief, always stealing everybody’s dope.

“Got any shit, Falcon?”

“Nothing for you, Johnny.”

“Come on, man. You’re a celebrity now. One of the beautiful people. Beautiful people always got the shit.”

“I’m not a celebrity.”

“Yes, you is,” he said, and then he started coughing. “You was on TV. I saw you. I watched in the emergency room over at Jackson. I told everyone in the joint: Hey, that’s my friend, Falcon!”

Falcon could no longer feel the cold air. Hot blood was coursing through his veins. “I’m not your friend, Johnny.”

The Bushman rose and came to him. “Take it easy, mon. Don’t pay Johnny no never mind.”

“What you mean you ain’t my friend?” said Johnny.

“I don’t have any friends,” said Falcon.

The Bushman seemed genuinely hurt. “Aw, now dat can’t be true, mon.”

“Bushman’s right,” said Johnny. “That’s not true at all. I know it, you know it, everybody who was watching you on the TV knows it. You gots a friend, all right. You gots a girlfriend.”

“You shut your ugly face, Johnny.”

“It’s true. That’s why you ended up in jail. You wanted to talk to your girlfriend.”

“She’s not-”

“Falcon gots a girlfriend, Falcon gots a-”

Before the taunting could even build up a rhythm, Falcon lunged straight at Johnny’s throat and took him to the ground. Johnny landed on his back. Falcon was kneeling on his chest. He had both hands around Johnny’s neck and was squeezing with blind fury.

“Stop!” the Bushman shouted.

Falcon kept squeezing. Johnny’s face was turning blue. He clawed and scratched at his attacker, but Falcon did not let up. Johnny’s eyes looked ready to pop from his head.

“Let him go!” shouted Bushman. But Falcon didn’t need anyone telling him what to do. He knew what Johnny deserved. He knew how much suffering a human being could take. He gave one last squeeze, pushing it to the limit, then released.

Johnny rolled onto his side and gasped for air. Falcon watched him for a minute, saying nothing, displaying no emotion of any kind. Johnny kept coughing, trying to catch his breath. The Bushman started toward him slowly, concerned. “Johnny, you want some water?”

“No!” shouted Falcon. “He can’t drink yet. If he drinks, he’ll die. No water!”

The Bushman made a face, confused. “What are you talkin’ about, mon?”

Falcon couldn’t find a response. His thoughts were scattered, and he was too tired to chase them. He looked at the Bushman, then at Johnny. No one said anything, but Falcon no longer felt welcome. “I’m going home.” He stepped right over Johnny and continued on his way, following the footpath along the river.

Slowly, the rush of anger subsided, and he was beginning to feel the cold again. His thoughts turned toward home. He would definitely sleep in the trunk tonight. That was by far the best place on cold nights, offering complete shelter from the elements. Just thinking about it brought a warm feeling all the way down to his toes. Forget those losers and their scraps of cardboard under the bridge. Who needed their insults and aggravation?

He was just a few yards from home when he stopped in his tracks. A fire was burning beside his house. Not a big, raging, out-of-control fire. It was a little campfire. A stranger was seated on a plastic milk crate and warming his hands over the flames. No, not his hands. Her hands. Falcon’s visitor was a woman. She spotted Falcon and rose slowly, but not to greet him. She just stared, and Falcon stared right back. In this neighborhood, her appearance was far more curious than his. Hers were not the clothes of a homeless woman. The overcoat fit her well, and it still had all the pretty brass buttons in place. There were no holes in her leather gloves, no fingers protruding. The shoes were new and polished. Her head was covered with a clean white scarf. It almost looked like a nappy. A well-dressed older woman with a diaper on her head.

Falcon took a half-step closer, then stopped.

“Who are you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Who are you?”

Silence. Falcon tried another angle.

“What do you want?”

Still no answer. Instead, she simply started walking around the campfire, walking in circles, walking in silence. Falcon’s hands started to shake. He clenched them into fists. He bit down hard on his lower lip, but a fireball was burning inside him, and there was no containing it. “Get away, get away from me, GET AWAY FROM ME, WOMAN!”

He shouted at her over and over again. He shouted at the top of his voice. He shouted until he couldn’t shout anymore. He gasped for air, and it felt so cold going down that he thought it might sear his lungs. He wanted to run, but there was no escape.

Because he did indeed know who she was, this Mother of the Disappeared.

And he knew exactly what she wanted.