seven

Mallen left the scene of Hendrix’s demise. The fucker had died the hard way. But then again, he was someone who got off on pictures of nude children. Did that make his death hard, or justified? Or was it just not that black and white? Maybe it also depended on the motive for him dying. Whoever had killed him probably, most probably hadn’t done it because of Hendrix being a piece of shit. Not because he was a pedophile. No, it was probable that whoever had put Hendrix out of his misery did it because they needed him dead. Jesus, where did the black start, and white end?

He sighed. Pulled out a cigarette as he walked back to his … no, Gregor’s truck. Again reminded himself that ownership of that metal creature would have to be fixed. He had to admit: he was falling in love with the damn thing. Reached the Land Cruiser. Hendrix. What happened? Did Gwen even know about it? Inside the truck, he yanked out his phone. Closed the door and dialed her number.

“Saunders,” she answered.

“Mallen.”

“You have bad news.” No question there.

“So you know.”

“Just heard. Been waiting for you to call … waiting and sad that you didn’t call me first.”

“Sure.” He pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. Blew out some smoke, replying, “You never said anything about being hired exclusive. I do what’s the right thing to do, when I can figure the fuck out what that’s supposed to be.”

“Okay,” she replied, “don’t let your moral compass stab you on the way out, okay? What did you find in shitbag’s wagon?”

“Nothing much. He had bags of women’s clothes, which is creepy on its own. Was a junkie. Had about $500 bucks in his pocket. Oh, and he had a stash of child porn, and had been murdered.”

“Child porn? Shit. How do they know he was murdered? Maybe he just OD’d. Lots of junkies—” Stopped then for a moment before continuing. “Sorry, you probably know all this.”

“Gwen,” he said, “no need to apologize. I don’t run from what I was.”

“When I started to track you down, I heard a couple things that back that up.” There was a silence on the line, then she said, “I need to know who in the force he was connected to. And also who on the street he hung with.”

“Who on the force he was connected to? You’re kidding, right? That’s way more your world, Gwen. I can try the other request, but no way on the first one.”

“You have some friends still inside. Don’t you? At least one.”

And it bugged him that she knew that. “You know, I’m suddenly beginning to wonder if this is what I signed up for. Don’t lose sight of the fact that this is me and you. Not you and me, all right? You don’t tell me what to do. I follow my own threads, as I see them sewn.”

“Look, I need you to work with me on this, Mallen. Come on … a child is in danger here and you’re whining to me about which one of your friends to hit up for intel? Like I said: you can go places I can’t. Come the fuck on.”

He kept his gaze on the ground at his feet. Didn’t like what she’d just said. He was feeling boxed in, very fast. But there was a little girl to consider. He would’ve burned down the world to get to Anna if she were missing. “Okay,” he said, “alright. I’ll try.”

–––––

He’d only been driving a handful of minutes when his cell rang. Checked the number. It was Chris.

“Hey,” he said. “Everything okay? What’s up?” Didn’t mean to sound so paranoid and nervous, but ever since her abduction he’d been on pins and needles about anything concerning her.

“I’m fine, Mark. But … .” The hesitation there was enough to feed images of Anna in trouble. He’d just seen her a few hours ago. Still … . Then she said, “It’s about your father.”

He pulled into the parking lot of an old motel on Van Ness. The world receded. Dropped away faster than a block of concrete tossed in the ocean. She wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t something serious.

“Yeah? Pops?”

“The facility called here … they had no other number. They said to come, and come soon, if you wanted to see him … one last … well, you know.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“I’m so sorry Mark, I know how—”

“I know. Thank you. Talk soon.”

–––––

If there’d ever been a time when he’d felt he’d let Ol’ “Monster” Mallen down, it was with the choice of the facility he placed him in. There just hadn’t been the money to do better. God help him but he would’ve given his eyeteeth for more fuckin’ money.

He’d always wondered how it would end. As he pulled into the parking lot of the Alzheimer’s home, he couldn’t really wrap his head around the idea that the end time was now. That his father would die here, in this way. A lion, if it doesn’t get killed on the plains, finds some dark, dank cave to die in. Or maybe some muddy riverbank to die on. The lion doesn’t die like this. Not in a place like this.

There was plenty of parking in the lot. Every time he’d been here, there had never been more than a few cars. But it wasn’t like he’d been here a lot, either. Being a cop, then an undercover cop, then a junkie cop, then a junkie, then a recovering junkie meant a lot of time spent in those goddamned endeavors. Or, that’s what he liked to tell himself, anyway.

Parked near the entrance. Opened the truck door, but stopped. Sparked up a cigarette and just sat there for a moment.

His father was dying. No, the two of them hadn’t been close. Monster had never taken him fishing. Or taught him how to build a balsawood model airplane. But he was still “Dad.” But was that really true? Wasn’t he “Monster Mallen” first, then “Dad”? It sure as fuck seemed that way. It was “Monster Mallen” that had taught him how to swim. Had just thrown him in the doughboy pool and yelled, “Swim, Mark! Swim!” That was Ol’ Monster. Not “Dad.”

He dropped the half-smoked cigarette onto the asphalt. Ground it out with his left boot. An exclamation point to the conversation roiling in his head. Went over to the building door and inside.

The reception area still had that muted, geometric-patterned carpet. The fireplace over on the right, two wingback chairs facing it. Books on the shelves that looked like they hadn’t been read in years. On his left was the reception desk. A nurse sat behind it, typing on a keyboard. She wore a soft blue smock. Hair up in a bun. Smiled at him as he approached. Same smile she probably used one hundred times a week.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Crisp voice.

“Yes. I received a message about my father. Last name Mallen.”

Gone was the smile. “Yes, I spoke with your wife. Go on ahead. Room fifteen. I’ll page his caregiver.”

“Thank you.” He turned and went down the hall. It was lined with chairs on which sat, or spilled, the elderly. People all in various stages of their illness. Some looked up at him as he went by. Others stared off into space. Maybe they were reliving what was left of their past. Maybe as far back as childhood. Seemed that the disease ate its way back through the life of a person. The last thing you were left with was childhood. Your parents. Your first bike. Who the fuck knew?

An elderly woman got out of her chair as he walked by. “Tommy!” she said, her voice quaking.

He stopped. She came up to him. Tears in her eyes. “Tommy … my Tommy … ” A nurse came over. Gently took her by the shoulder to lead her back to her chair. “Tommy?”

He smiled at her. “I love you, Mom,” he told her, then continued down the hall. Heard the woman say to the nurse, “My son came and saw me. He loves me.”

Mallen stopped at the door to his father’s room. Really needed another cigarette now. His hands were shaking. He took a breath, then pushed the door open. There was his dad. Wasted away. On a frame as big as his father’s, that wasting seemed even more severe. Eyes closed, and he seemed to be barely breathing. He approached the bed. He knew Ol’ Monster Mallen didn’t exist inside this frame anymore. Knew that his father didn’t, either. And those thoughts made him feel the years more keenly than he could ever remember.

The caregiver came in. Young woman, dressed as you’d expect. White pants, flowered smock. Danskos on her feet. He couldn’t remember how many people had looked after Pops in all these years. “Mr. Mallen?” she said to him. Quietly. Trying to be respectful, and making it, too.

“Yeah. Thanks for looking after my father.”

She went over to the bed. Checked the fluid bag that hung from the side of the bed. The bag that was tied via catheter to his father’s insides. The fluid in that bag was murky. A burnt yellow. There were no more IVs. No more machines. Ol’ Monster was past all that now. At least there was no pain, Mallen told himself. He figured that this is what comes after the losing of all the memories: the body stops remembering how to breathe, the heart forgets how to pump. He sighed, and pulled up a chair. Watched his father’s face. He realized then, at that moment, he envied Ol’ Monster his loss of memories. There were a lot of them Mallen wished he could forget.

The caregiver finished arranging the blanket and tilting his head so he could breathe better, trying to make his father as comfortable as possible. Turned to Mallen then and told him, “I’m sure he’s glad you got here when you did.”

“Yeah.”

With that she went out quietly, the door closing behind her with a soft, hushed hiss. He took his father’s hand. “Sleep, Pops. Just let it go and … sleep.”

Stayed that way for another hour. The afternoon ticked away. Hand in hand. In that time, Mallen watched so many memories play on the screen in his mind. Made him think of his mother, his memories of her now faded and spare. Everything faded, right? That was life, yeah?

He could barely hear his father’s breathing now. He’d been watching Ol’ Monster’s chest rise … then fall … always wondering if this was it: the last time. Shook his head then. What a shitty way to go. Wouldn’t Pops kick his ass for letting him go out this way? Right now, at this moment, Mallen wished with all his heart that he’d done it differently. He should’ve talked more with his father, found some other way for him to check out, even if that meant a bullet on a cold cliff above the ocean. That would’ve been so much fucking better than this. Ending up in some bullshit care facility with a hose stuck up your cock, your mind wiped empty of its past, its present, and its hope for a future.

God fucking damn it … .

And then what happened, Mallen never forgot. Ever. His father’s breathing deepened with a shudder and his hand suddenly tightened on Mallen’s. And there they were, two men, hands clasped in bonding. And his father opened his eyes. Stared right at him. Like he saw him, saw that it was his son. Like he remembered.

It was a whisper from across the room it was so soft. “Look after them.”

And that was it. Mallen felt the hand relax, and that was it. And he cried. Couldn’t help himself. Almost laughed then. Ol’ Monster Mallen never brooked crying from his son.