two

Mark Mallen jogged up to the dock mailboxes and leaned against them, breathing hard. Shook sweat from his head like a dog does after running through sprinklers. Checked his watch. Still had a few hours before picking up Anna for their day at the park. Now was the time to finally see if that Sode kite would fly. He’d found some very lightweight nylon strips and worked them together in a dizzying geometric pattern tail that would look great up there in the sky.

Or so he hoped.

Got his breathing under control as he limped down the dock to his floating hovel. It was the top of the month, and that meant time to send the rent to Oberon. The deal had been Mallen would pay the rent and Oberon would let him stay, if he kept up the place and made the necessary repairs. Well, he’d been staying, but quickly learned he wasn’t the fixer-upper handyman he’d thought he could be.

The morning newspaper lay next to the front door. He picked it up as he passed inside, tossing it on the kitchen counter as he went toward the bathroom. Stripped down. In what had become a sort of ritual, he checked the crook of his right arm. The needle holes there had healed, but had left behind some faint, blue/black marks. He was okay with their calligraphy. A reminder of what had been. That thought made him gaze down at the still healing cuts and bruises all over his body. A history of his work since getting clean of the needle. Those cuts and bruises looked like some demented form of graffiti. He’d certainly seen a shitload of action the last few months or so. The ribs still hurt, even weeks later. The nail holes in his right hand had healed, but man … would that hand ever not be stiff again? Maybe it would be like one of those old war wounds that acted up before it rained. Such was the life of a recovering junkie ex-cop. He got into the shower and took a long, hot one. Came out of the bathroom twenty minutes later in jeans, drying his hair with a clean towel. The last clean towel he could find. Time for laundry again. Had to wonder if he even would’ve had money to do laundry if it weren’t for the severance package the police had given him when they’d told him to take a hike off into his city of needles.

Wondered if he should call Chris and confirm, but thought better of it. Ever since he’d brought her back from that night at the Palace of Fine Arts, and the men who’d taken her hostage, he knew she needed space and time to heal. He also knew he’d never forgive himself for putting her through what those men had done to her, scarring her like they did, emotionally and physically. It didn’t matter what she’d said about not holding him responsible: it was his fault, pure and simple. She’d also told him that once she was feeling a little better, she was going to go and talk to someone. Maybe a therapist who specialized in PTS. He’d answered that it was a great idea. He’d also apologized again for putting her through it … putting her through everything.

He had some time before driving into the city, so sat down on the couch and opened his paper. It was on the last page, in the local news section titled “Crime Alerts,” that he read something that made him sit up. A three-year-old girl had been abducted right out of her bedroom sometime the night before or very early that morning. The mother’s name was Trina Marston.

He knew her.

Read the short article again, just to make sure it was the same person. Yes, it mentioned she lived in the Tenderloin. That’s where he knew her from. During his days when he’d been wasting his life away in the Loin, shooting smack into his arm like it was going out of style. They’d even shot together a couple times. She’d lived in his building for a bit. Her little girl was only about two years old the last time he’d seen Trina. It was about that time that she’d moved to a building a couple blocks away. But in that hood? A couple blocks could sometimes be like moving across the ocean. He reread the article a third time. The daughter, Jessie, had been taken sometime after 8 p.m. The article for some reason mentioned Trina’s arrest record. That she’d been found with some heroin on her once. Also once with some pharmaceuticals that didn’t belong to her. She’d been given probation. Told to get into a rehab program, a program that the article seemed happy to point out she was not participating in. They quoted Trina’s response when asked about why she hadn’t followed through with the rehab program. “I’m not like those rich people you see on TV who go into rehab. They have families, or maids, to look after their kids. I have nobody to watch my child, except me. That’s why I haven’t gone, yet.” The article then wrapped up with a thinly disguised line almost insinuating that if Trina had been a better mother and not an addict that maybe she could’ve somehow prevented the abduction.

“Such fucking bullshit,” Mallen mumbled to himself as he tossed the paper onto the coffee table. Thought about Trina as he sat there. So, Trina had never made it clean. A couple times they’d been together, she’d sounded like she really wanted to try and get out from under the needle. He especially remembered this one time, right before they were going to shoot up in his apartment. There was this faraway look in her dark eyes. They even watered up a little. At that moment, she looked like she wanted to be anywhere but where she was, anyone but who she was. But then the needle went in, the plunger slowly down, and the eyes changed into veiled mirrors, turned inward.

The longer he sat there, the heavier his heart became. Her daughter, little Jess, gone? Shit.

In that part of town, chances were it was a molester. He hated the sick feeling the thought left in him. He knew from his cop days that the Tenderloin was home to more registered sex offenders than any other hood. He also knew the stats: that a lot of the children who go missing were never seen again. Never. Or, if by some stroke of luck they were found, they ended up being so emotionally and physically wounded they could never get themselves back to normal. Even with all the help in the world.

Mallen checked his watch. He could do it. Make it down to the Loin to see Trina, if only for a moment. Let her know she wasn’t alone. Maybe he could find out if she really felt like she’d had enough with the drugs. Maybe he could help her get clean. Just like Gato had done for him.

The least he could do was to go see her. Jesus … it could’ve been Anna that had been taken. Had almost been Anna when the Darkstar men had come for her and Chris. He got dressed. Shrugged into his leather jacket, snatched up the car keys, and went to the door. Remembered the kite at the last minute and ran back upstairs to his office for it. Picked it up, but stood there for a moment as he looked over at the file cabinet. He always had this argument with himself now: to go out armed, or not. It felt like he’d never be able to move his life forward if he kept going around with a gun in his pocket. But it seemed that ever since he’d gotten clean, he’d seen some very dark things. Sick, dark things that showed him the world was indeed a deep well of nightmares. Sure there was good stuff. The kite in his hand. Anna. But in the end, he always figured that to protect the good stuff he would just have to go around with a gun in his pocket. Maybe one day it was an argument he’d actually fucking win, and leave the weapon home. Who knew? He went to the cabinet drawer. Pulled out the Glock, stashing it in his left coat pocket. Grabbed up the kite and left.

At least kite flying was a safe endeavor.