Page 15

CHAPTER 15

Max

I t's a long evening in the laboratory, and I'm ready to go home. I decide it's best to call and apologize for being weird last night at Ben's place and ask if he'd like to go out to dinner with me.

I check the time on my phone. It's late, but not too late for a risky text or call. I start typing a text, then erase it.

"Grow a pair of balls," I mutter to myself.

I go outside and sit against the metallic railing along the outside walkway. It's dark, and the streetlights do little to illuminate the area, but the parking lot is a bit better lit. Too many rich people's cars are parked there at all hours, needing protection. I remember my days as a cop, knowing where the affluent gathered because of the security cameras, well-lit parking structures, lots, and often security guards patrolling the grounds. The museum has all of these.

I pull up Ben's number while multiple scenarios play through my mind about handling my faux pas.

I make the call.

"Hello," Ben answers after the first ring. "I was worried about you. Everything okay?"

"I am truly sorry. I acted so odd at your place last night. My scars are tied to some deep emotions and memories I don’t like to revisit. I think I was worried you would ask about them and I wasn’t prepared to answer them. Maybe someday, but just not last night."

There's a long pause on the other end. No doubt, Ben has a lot running through his mind about how he wants to handle this. "While I’m an ER surgeon and have seen about every kind of scar you can imagine, I sometimes have to stop and think about the person who’s wearing the scar… what it means to them. How they got it. What they went through. When you’re ready to talk about it, I will be ready to listen. I can’t promise I won’t have a million questions though. Is that fair?"

"More than fair."

"Until then, we can talk about less interesting things. No less important, but maybe less emotionally charged."

I smile. "What do you have in mind?"

"For starters, how did your test turn out? Did you pass?"

I haven’t been online to check. "Hold on a second." I go to check the school website when I see I have a text from London. I open it and a smile spreads across my face so hard my cheeks hurt. "I passed. Got an A. My friend London passed too, so we will have to celebrate this little accomplishment."

"I hope I’ll be invited," Ben says. "Things sure have changed since I was in school. We would often have to wait for weeks for our grades."

"You are more than welcome to join us whenever we decide to celebrate," I say. I don’t bother to tell him how London confessed in the text to hacking into the teacher’s online gradebook to find out our scores, he doesn’t need that detail. "So, tell me, how was your evening?"

"Honestly, it was pretty boring. I had the evening off work, so I did laundry. Isn’t that hot?"

"That depends on… were you doing laundry naked?" I blush at my own question.

"Wouldn’t you like to know?" Ben teases. "Let’s just say I kept the blinds closed."

"Okay, keep your secrets." I laugh. "Maybe I should bring my laundry to your place from now on? The laundromat I usually use has a strict, No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service policy."

"Gosh, that takes all the fun out of it then."

I smile and feel emboldened by our banter. "Any chance you have dinner plans for tomorrow?"

"As a matter of fact, I don’t."

"Great," I say. "How about we have a redo then? Do you have a preference as to where we go?"

"Other than Taco Caliente?" Ben laughs.

"Definitely," I say. "Anywhere else."

"Okay… I know a nice sushi place downtown. Great food and even better drinks."

"That sounds lovely. What’s the name and what time should I meet you?"

"Delicate Sea. Does seven work for you?"

"Oh, swanky. I’m glad you told me ahead of time, so I dress appropriately."

"I know the owners," Ben says. "Long time family friends. We’ve joked in our family that it's an Italian thing… you know… mafia connections, but my father assured me that’s not the case.”

"Wow, okay. I guess mob connections aren’t all bad,” I say with a smile. “Either way, it’s a good thing. The last time London called to see if we could get reservations, they were taking them for two weeks out."

"It’s definitely considered a hot-spot at the moment. Ever since that article came out in LA Zine about the owner’s family being connected to some Asian organized crime syndicate. "

"I saw that. I think it was San Francisco, wasn’t it?" I ask. "Something about the Yakuza."

He laughs. "I believe so. I’m not really up on my mob families, but that does ring a bell."

Silence falls between us, but Ben cuts through it first. "I’m really glad you called."

"Me too."

"Oh, shoot. I hate to cut this call short, but I do have to get going. My work phone is ringing. There’s always an emergency going on somewhere in Los Angeles."

"Okay, I’ll let you go," I say. "And I’ll see you tomorrow night at seven."

"I’m looking forward to it. Bye, Max."

"Bye," I say. The phone call disconnects, and I hug my knees to my chest. Ben is such a good guy. I stand and hurry toward my car parked in the lot behind the museum. The wind suddenly picks up and blows through my hair, causing my shirt to flap in the stiff breeze. Despite the warm evening, I shiver and remember what Bretton had said to me about being followed.

I stop walking and steal a glance behind me. From the periphery, I could have sworn I’d seen something or someone. A shadow? A tree blowing in the wind? Suddenly, all of my senses are on alert. While the breeze muffles the other sounds around me, I swear I hear the sound of a shoe scrape against concrete.

Regretting my decision to leave work before everyone else was done, I tighten my grip on the backpack straps over my shoulders. My car is on the far side of the employee lot which would normally be empty at this hour. Unfortunately, tonight there are at least twenty cars spaced around the area that could make great hiding places for someone following me.

A few more quick steps before I stop again, taking a few seconds to listen for pursuers. I turn in a full circle, taking in every shadow, tree, bush, and car in view. Am I going crazy? Being paranoid? My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, causing me to jump. Fishing the phone out, I take a quick glance at the message. It's from Ben, saying he's excited to see me tomorrow. Vacillating between fear and pleasure, I put the phone back in my front pocket and double my speed toward the car.

As I approach the Prius, I reach for the door handle but stop short when I notice a reflection in the back window. My breath catches in my chest. Someone is following me, and I see what looks like a man duck behind a car two rows back when I stop moving. I turn to face the direction of my stalker.

"Whoever you are… I see you," I yell out into the night. "Stop following me or I’ll call the police."

Was it The Butcher? Had he upped his efforts to stalk me? Risked getting caught and revealing to the world he was actually still alive to get closer to me?

There is no response, not that I had expected one. I back up two steps and touch my door handle. The lock disengages, and I open the door, throwing the backpack inside to the passenger seat, all without taking my eyes off where I’d last seen my pursuer.

The scar, hidden under my shirt but never forgotten, tingles. I am sure then that it is The Butcher himself out there watching me. Without thinking, I place a hand on the very spot the madman had first stuck the knife, deep enough to kill, but not deep enough to end my suffering quickly. My knees feel weak, and my hands tremble. The palm of my right-hand itches and grows sweaty as I long to feel the hard, cool, textured handle of my service weapon.

Without another word, I break my stare and jump into the front seat of the car and lock the door behind me. I start the engine and peel away from my parking space with a squeal of the tires.

"Damn," I say. "Now what do I do? "

My brain races faster than my car as I drive aimlessly through the lamp-lit streets of Los Angeles. Home no longer feels safe. Now, work doesn’t either. If I contact London, would that put her in danger?

What else could I do and where else could I go? I think about driving to the police station and begging them for help, but I can’t bear the idea of seeing the pity on their faces.

No. Fuck him. I punch the steering wheel hard enough to split the skin on my middle knuckle. I am not going into hiding. I don’t have anywhere other than my normal life to go, so I’m not going to stop living. If The Butcher wants to come for me, I will just have to fight back. I need to be ready for anything, and I know it.