The Fugitive

Chapter 8 of the science fiction crime thriller Freak

Freak

Chapter Eight

The Fugitive

Sweet Harbor restaurant is a castaway’s mansion snuggled in a lush grove of palms.

Customers entering off the driftwood-bordered parking lot cross a wide, rope-railed wood bridge swallowed up in a fern-and-bamboo tunnel. This bridge, cleverly constructed to give the impression of a dilapidated structure on the verge of collapse, spans an artificial pond stocked with goldfish the size of roof rats.

The establishment’s rear is built entirely of glass, offering diners cloudless skies, breathtaking sunsets, and an unobstructed view of yachts rocking side by side in Marina del Rey’s Basin F. On the broad sundeck you’ll find faded canvas umbrellas for daytime, tall gas heaters for that occasional nippy California night, leaning tiki torches and strung globe candles, glass-topped wicker tables, leather-padded chairs, and one very paranoid tourist working hard on his third Piña Colada.

Abram’s disguise, while comical, was effective: a loud Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, dark knee-high dress socks and brown wingtips. Heavy shades under a silk-banded Homburg featuring pins of an American flag, a smiley face, and a terribly abashed Betty Boop. All he needed was a camera slung round his neck to complete the picture of a Wisconsin geek searching for Disneyland.

To the staff of Sweet Harbor, the defense attorney’s isolation was perfectly understandable--his mood was so down his very presence had swept the deck. And to Nelson Prentis, standing inside watching his friend through the glass, Abram’s depression was as clear as the powder blue sky. The man was a loser.

The discrepancies in court-recorded and actual time, Judge Hatch’s inexplicable fiery admonition, and the vague admissions of mysterious headaches and general confusion reported by the audience, were all delightful breaks for the four o’clock news. Abram was hit hardest, certainly, but he was seasoned enough to handle it with grace and good humor. Hatch, sincerely unable to account for his behavior, apologized personally and publicly in a much-discussed news conference, re-broadcast nationally every hour, and locally every quarter hour. A thorough investigation of each man and woman in that courtroom was already under way.

To the rest of the country the post-trial telecast was a scrumptiously over-produced vision of La-la land as Bedlam--all opinions of a state long-considered flaky, spoiled, and downright incompetent were reaffirmed in spades. But in L.A. itself the Vilenov circus only gained steam; in certain circles the man was already painlessly morphing from monster to cult hero. And Abram, seen over most of his career as a symbol of flash and arrogance, was suddenly a champion of the little guy. There were calls from breathless women on his answering machine, proposals for top-paying interviews in his email. Prompt service at the market and dry cleaners, thumbs-ups from strangers on the street. At first merely amused, he quickly grew exhilarated by all the attention.

But the news of Beasely’s murder was an instant crash and burn. Though there wasn’t a single professional or lay theory that could adequately account for the surgeon’s sudden psychotic behavior, Abram had a theory of his own: his ex-client had been telling the truth in their first interview, and was able to get back at his enemies indirectly, through some means not scientifically explainable. Abram cancelled all appointments and turned off his answering machine, embraced his family and had a long conversation with his rabbi.

That night at nine, Nicolas Vilenov’s second escape hit the South Bay like a tsunami. Abram began drinking recklessly and smashed his answering machine, became argumentative with his family and rabbi, and locked himself in his basement office. His rambling phone calls tapered to incoherence. Eventually he passed out.

Some time after one a.m., Lawrence Abram lurched to his senses and went for his wife’s throat. Barbara threw the kids in the car and vanished. Nelson Prentis, monitoring the red-eye Houdini Rapist Task Force, took her hysterical call half an hour later. Prentis had yet to catch a moment’s sleep.

This would all make for a tense encounter anywhere else, and between almost any other two people. But both men had spent countless hours here, and Prentis’s affection for Abram went way deeper than simple friendship. He could forgive Abram anything. Under these heaters and umbrellas, the men had developed an immutable professional understanding: their career paths, by definition adversarial, ended at the office. Here cases were discussed with honesty, with compassion, and with balls. And confidence is sacred between friends.

Prentis crossed the deck arm-in-arm with his favorite waitress, cranking up the volume on his small talk to herald his coming. But Abram, staring miserably into his empty glass, was so far gone he didn’t realize he had company until their shadows leaped on his folded arms.

“Easy, buddy! Take it easy. Nelson Prentis, remember? Childhood, adulthood; stuff like that.”

Abram wiped his palms on his Bermudas. “Sorry, Nellie. I guess I was kind of zoned out there.”

“So I noticed.”

The pretty blonde waitress beamed like the sun breaking through clouds. Prentis ordered another Piña Colada for Abram, and for himself a tall glass of Ancient Age with Schweppes Bitter Lemon over ice, crowned by a slice of lime, chipped honey, and a short handful of maraschinos. His fingernails tapped the glass tabletop in an accelerating crescendo, an old law school habit. It was his personal drum roll.

“I’ve got news, Larry; the good, the bad, and the ugly. First, the good. I’ve been on and off the phone with Babs all morning. She’s with the kids at her mom’s place. Everybody’s fine.”

Abram sagged. “So you know.”

“All about it. Look, I could see you were taking the news hard when you left all those messages, but what made you take it out on Babs?”

Abram could only shake his head. He looked away.

Prentis waited.

Finally Abram shook his head again. The waitress brought their drinks. Prentis signed for the tab, folded the receipt and placed it in his shirt’s pocket.

Abram took a quick swallow, the sun dancing on his shades. “So how did he walk? Damn it, Nelson, you assured me his cell was tight!”

“So I did, and so it was. After he was released from emergency with nothing worse than a nasty bruise on his temple, Vilenov was given a series of tranquilizers and placed in a special cell designed to hold even the most dangerous prisoners.” He looked at Abram very directly. “For his own protection, of course.”

“He was put in a rubber room?”

“Pretty much. But without the jacket. Vilenov was about as mellow as a man can be under the circumstances. At 7:10 the video has him facing the door, and shows the guard looking at him through the peephole.” Again with the drum roll. “Larry, this goes a lot deeper than we thought. It can’t be substantiated, of course, but Vilenov appears to have somehow influenced the guard with a simple glance through a peephole three inches wide and two inches thick.” He added dryly, “All of Vilenov’s guards, by the way, were screened and verified to have never before come into contact with the prisoner. If our man, through some unknowable process, is able to produce a weird hold on people, we want to make sure the ones around him are untainted, so to speak.” Prentis lifted his glasses symbolically and gave Abram a deep, meaningful wink. “Just to keep the queasy at ease. Anyways, cell cameras show the guard opening the door and letting Vilenov out. Corridor cameras follow them casually making their way. At each gate an officer buzzes the lock and ushers them through. This goes on all the way to Property, with a growing cast of uniforms escorting Vilenov like royalty.

“The guards go back to their stations, and Vilenov begins badgering the Property officer like an eager shopper. After rooting through the entire room, the officer finally comes up with a complete zoot suit, if you can believe it, crazy brim and all. Vilenov puts the suit on and does a little soft-shoe for the camera, then pulls the hat low over his face and sashays out of there. Exit the Houdini Rapist. The suit was found hanging half out of a garbage bin two hours later. But no sign of Vilenov. Police hit the area immediately and with intensity. Dozens of people report seeing a logy guy tripping down the sidewalk in a zoot suit, snapping his fingers and singing ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca.’ In the last sighting he was dancing outside a sporting goods store while staring in the window. The store’s manager was hauled out of bed by police and questioned. No recollection of Vilenov. The manager was then dragged back to his store for inventory. It seems likely Vilenov changed his disguise with articles from the store. This got to be really tacky. Every employee had to be rousted during the wee hours to account for articles present and missing. A salesgirl and a cashier got antsy and refused to cooperate; it’s pretty obvious they’d been ripping from the store. Oh, it’ll all get sorted out, but by that time Vilenov will certainly have altered his whole appearance.”

Prentis chomped a cherry and took a long swallow of his drink. “One of the first things to come out of this is that the floor safe was robbed of several thousand dollars. The manager was the only one present with access to the safe’s combination. So then of course he gets defensive. The store’s owner, who handles another outlet in Phoenix, is contacted. Accusations start flying all over the place. Police at the store treat the whole thing like a domestic situation, while detectives struggle over inventory. Precious time is lost. Vilenov could have hopped a bus to Long Beach, and from there a cab to San Diego. By now he could be happily bopping señoras in sunny Mazatlan.”

Abram groaned.

After a minute the DA said, “Larry, there are elements to this case that go way beyond the unusual.”

“That’s pretty astute, Nelson,” Abram grated. “I salute your acumen.” He downed half his drink in a swallow.

Prentis nodded, said, “Now for the bad news,” and turned to stare at a fenced-off space below, where a massive crow was scattering sparrows in a widespread carpet of croissant crumbs. “First off,” he said, swirling a hand languidly, “let’s look at Marilyn Purly’s apartment complex, where Mr. Fred Mars, that holdout tenant on the petition Scarboro circulated, for some inexplicable reason decides to take a header off the landing outside his door at one-fifteen this morning. Cracks his skull wide open on the drive and dies instantly. Nobody sees a thing, of course, and nobody has a clue. Now let’s look at an ugly event, apparently unrelated and of far greater interest, that takes place miles away but only minutes later.” Prentis slowly swiveled his gaze until he was looking directly into the black lenses masking Abram’s eyes. “Doctor Edward Karl Reis was found dead by his own hand at one twenty-five this morning. Both legally and literally.” A shudder rolled across the table and up Prentis’s reclining arm. “And Larry, he sure didn’t go gently into that good night. According to the coroner’s initial report, Reis attempted to strangle himself, using both hands, leaving two very deep handprints with matching bruises on the thumbs and fingers. This was not a rational attempt at suicide, my friend. It was done in wild rage by a man completely out of his mind. I’ve never heard of such a case, except for one self-aborted attempt maybe five years ago, by some nut on angel dust. The good doctor, by the way, had nothing more toxic in his system than the remains of a double cappuccino. Obviously this kind of suicide can’t be done. The worst you can do is make yourself black out, which is what the coroner figures happened.

“The next indication is that he came to his senses and tried to garrote himself with one of his ties, then with a lamp cord. These were very intense acts, Larry, resulting in a shambles for twenty square feet. They didn’t work either, for the same reason. Corresponding abrasions on the knuckles and face demonstrate that the man actually tried to punch himself to death with his own fists. But finally he got down on his hands and knees and butted his head against the front door jamb until he knocked himself into a coma. He died of a brain hemorrhage on the way to the hospital. A herd of neighbors responded to the ruckus with almost simultaneous 911 calls. Not a soul can verify a visitor to the doctor’s home; no one saw anything other than the usual skateboarders and news vans and some guy riding by in his exercise sweats. The house has been cordoned and the local Neighborhood Watch interviewed. The whole street’s freaked out. So far the investigation shows not a scrap, not a hint, not a ghost of an intruder.”

“Look, Nelson, lock me in a bank vault, okay? Surround me with Secret Service agents and attack dogs. Put me somewhere he can’t find me. Think of something!” He tore at his drink. “Help me out, Nellie!”

Prentis swirled the ice in his glass. “Oh, if I were you I wouldn’t get started on the funeral arrangements, not just yet. All the stops are being pulled on this case. The manhunt’s already under way, with the Police Chief’s and Mayor’s support, and a boatload of promises from the governor. Vilenov will be so busy running he won’t have a moment to rest, much less dwell on past slights.” He shifted in his seat. “But for all that, how do you suppose he’d get his hands on you, anyway? All you have to do is keep moving. Don’t hang out where he expects to find you.”

“He didn’t get his hands on Reis, or on Beasely--or on Frederick Mars or Marilyn Purly for that matter.”

Prentis looked at him sharply. “Now wait a minute, buddy. What you’re suggesting is paranormal activity, and that’s a lot of silly crap to take seriously in the 21^st century. Maybe you’d better taper off on the happy water. It sure ain’t making you happy.” He lost himself in an elongated drum roll. The drumming ceased abruptly. “Look, I’m not saying you don’t have a right to be concerned, but you’ve got no call to go over the deep end, intellectually speaking.”

“There are four gruesome deaths, Nelson, and this a*****e had a score to settle, valid or otherwise, with each individual. I know. He told me things you wouldn’t believe.”

“And you would? Jesus. Listen, man, there are two suicides, a fall, and a tragic, very messy homicide, and in each case Vilenov was either restrained or manifestly nowhere near the premises.” He rolled his shoulders. “I hate to say it, but if anybody’s got alibis, it’s him. Now, c’mon, Larry, I don’t like him either. He gives me the willies, and I’d sleep a whole lot easier knowing he was history. But he’s no demon, and he’s no lunatic. Don’t give him that much credit. He’s just another filthy pervert, but one with a knack for getting out of jams.” Prentis took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, ran a hand through his stiff graying hair. “Your attitude is totally symptomatic of what this whole manhunt’s about. Technically, the guy’s done nothing worse than escape from confinement twice. His first walk was officially cleared by the L.A. verdict. The second time he was in protective confinement, and only because of a panicky call to the mayor. But nobody really gives a damn about any of that anymore. The public’s freaked out, my boss is pissed, and there’s not going to be a third time! So just relax, already. We’ve got a two-part plan. Part One is to put the lid on what could become a countywide panic by convincing the public we’re right on him. Part Two is to snag the son of a b***h. And when we get him we’re gonna lock him in a dark room before we work out a way to deport him. There are a lot of places in the Middle East I wouldn’t mind seeing this guy dumped. Let them worry about him for a while.” He smiled coldly. “This is going to come out fine. There won’t be any more of his stunts. And no more shoddy police work.”

“And then what?”

“And then you and the rest of the girls can fan yourselves and put away your tea leaves and Ouija boards. You can reopen your windows and get on with your lives. And you personally, my friend, can ease off the firewater and return to your practice like a proud, civilized man.”

Abram again shook his head.

Prentis copied the movement with a practiced sarcasm that quickly deteriorated to genuine sympathy. He self-consciously cupped Abram’s hand in his own. “Listen, Larry, why don’t you and the family head on up to Big Bear? Make it four trips this year. There’s every reason to believe he’ll be coming back here; to Venice or to the Marina.” Abram drew his hand away, and Prentis’s demeanor instantly became businesslike. “You know as well as I that this area, on a late summer weekend, will be absolutely unmanageable. So the manhunt’ll emphasize subtlety. Rather than a concrete police presence, there’ll be a huge force of undercover spotters. The Venice circus this very morning acquired eighty-seven new members; everything from retirees, to security, to coast and fire. I’ve never seen such a surge of volunteerism.” He eyeballed the sedate marina. “Look around you, Larry. As pleasant as pleasant can be. Men all over the county are sending families to distant relatives, or locking ’em indoors. Women are dressing down and wearing veils. But not in the Venice-Marina area; not in the one place everyone expects him to show. Here guys are sporting those stupid glasses with the decals of Vilenov’s eyes on the lenses, and women are wearing the transparent DO ME, NICKY! blouses. This kind of crap is selling like crazy right out on the strand. Vilenov is pure camp. And he’ll be here, trying to fit right back in. I can feel it in my bones. But we’re ready, Larry. Every house he’s familiar with is back under surveillance, and all plain-clothes officers are ordered to stun on sight. Volunteers have received a crash course in the use of pepper spray, with directions to spray first and ask questions later.”

“I can see it now,” Abram moaned. “Courtrooms full of weirdos in Vilenov glasses who’ve been pepper-sprayed by meter maids disguised as fortune tellers and massage therapists.”

Prentis frowned wryly. “Was that the sound of you licking your lips, old buddy? Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of time to deal with sunshine lawsuits later. Nothing’s gonna come down in court. Besides, from every indication you’ve given me, you’re not particularly interested in sticking around for the Vilenov feeding frenzy.”

Abram shook his head gloomily. He squirmed a bit in his chair, then tilted his head left and right. He seemed to be having trouble swallowing. Suddenly his tongue was protruding and his dark glasses hanging half off his face. Abram tore at his collar and snapped back his head.

The next thing Prentis knew he was standing behind his friend with his hands clasped below the breastbone, halfway into the Heimlich maneuver. Abram shook him off. Prentis waved away a few customers crossing the deck and returned to his seat.

Abram coughed wretchedly. He picked up his hat and shoved the shades on tight. “I’m cool.”

“That does it. I want you to lay off drinking for a while, man. You’re a bundle of nerves, and the alcohol isn’t helping a bit. You’re just too high-strung.”

“It wasn’t the rum. I felt like I was on the gallows for a minute there.” Abram’s nails scratched across the glass tabletop. “Nelson, I’m begging you, as a personal friend and as a caring human being: find a way to get me and mine back together and out of town!”

“Slow down!”

But Abram plowed right ahead. “Big Bear sounds like just the ticket. Later, after this is all over and Vilenov’s history, I’ll come back and you can have a good long laugh at my gullibility. I won’t complain.” He faced the Marina substation, almost a mile away. “Nelson, I know something you don’t. Ever since the first time I interviewed the guy, in that sheriff’s station over there, something really heavy’s been going on in the back of my head. I can’t explain it in plain terms--you’d only call it nerves and rum-reason. So I won’t bother trying. I’ll just tell you I fully empathize with everybody who’s come into contact with that maniac.” He lifted his shades to expose the sincerity in his eyes. “He’s here, man! You talk about feeling it in your bones! Nellie, my Vilenov radar is screaming at me!”

“Fine. Then he’s as good as in the bag.”

Abram killed his drink. His next words amounted to an ultimatum. “Get me and my family out of town for a while. That’s all. So help me, Nelson, I’ll never ask you for another thing so long as I live.”

Prentis pushed himself to his feet. “Okay, let’s go. We’ll grab a cab and you can stay at my place for now. I’ve really got to get back to the office. As soon as I can make time I’ll get on the horn to Babs. You know she’ll listen to me. I’ll reconnect you two. Then I’m going to sleep the sleep of the dead. But you’ve got to promise me something. Promise me you’ll apologize to her, from the heart, for being such a jerk. You’re a luckier man than you’ll ever realize.”

“Don’t I know it!” Abram moaned. “God knows I know it!” He licked his lips and pulled the Homburg’s brim lower over his shades. “One thing first. Just order us another round.”

The DA took his arm. “I’ve got to get back, Larry.”

“Then we’ll get ’em to go.”

“Come on.” Prentis placed a Hamilton under his empty glass. He prodded his friend along with an occasional shove at the small of the back, smiling at customers and staff all the way.