Chapter 1

tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13248573.post-1155488562924897512006-08-05T10:01:00.000-07:002007-04-11T23:53:47.806-07:00Chapter 1PART ONE "If by abyss we understand a great depth, is not a human heart an abyss? Can't you see that there is in the 'self' a deep so profound as to be hidden even to the person whom it defines?" Saint Augustine, Expositions on the Psalms <center><img src="http://www.witnit.org/hh/1psalms.jpg" /></center> Friday, June 24, 7:05 p.m. "Detectives are already on the way to your office and your home. I think you should cooperate with them." Detective Manoukian's voice. On my answering machine. While I stood there holding what I shouldn't be holding. Couldn't be holding. I stared at the postcard and its message, written in my handwriting: Who's there? The Escher painting on the other side showing the pealing head wrapped around an empty space and floating in the air. The way my life was now unraveling around something and someone that held no conscious meaning for me. I looked at the newspaper article about my wife's suicide. Except that whoever sent it was telling me that it wasn't suicide. That it was murder. Gertrude Highsmith. Dead. Anne Mackenzie. Dead. Thomas Bendbridge. Dead. Hector Balfour. Dead. Keli Bendbridge. Dead. My ex-wife among four others who formed the world's greatest dysfunctional family. An unseen serial killer now focusing on me. Mercedes Macintyre Mackenzie. The unraveled private detective. What the hell was going on? The message machine clicked off. Detective Manoukian of the Maui County Police Department was holding my knife with my fingerprints on it. Stolen from my bungalow two weeks ago. A murder weapon. Yes, I'm sure that the police wanted to talk with me. But I had no time for that. I had to get out of my office before they arrived with their handcuffs and their mechanically locked bars. A blood-pounding pressure-pulse throbbed throughout my body. My hands shook slightly from the adrenaline screaming in my arteries. I shoved the postcard and the New York Times article into my back pocket. I left the dream journal on the desk. The detectives might muddle over it, but now I understood why it was stolen. An example of my handwriting. Just as Keli's diary had been stolen to copy hers. I thrust the postal locker key into my front pocket. I quickly stepped through the office door. I didn't bother to lock it. The lights were all on. No sense in pretending. In the hallway I heard the elevator bell ring. Like in the movies. Damn! I opened the stairwell door, eased through it, and closed the door gently. I listened in the stairwell. All quiet. The detectives had no reason to think I would know they were coming. Detective Manoukian must have thought I'd already left. Such a stupid message to leave on my machine. A glitch in your upward mobility, Manoukian. Thank God I was wearing my sneakers. I silently hurried down the stairs to the parking-floor landing, with an open doorway that led into the parking garage. My office was the only one occupied on the second floor. The first floor housed two graphic design businesses. The parking garage could hold eighteen vehicles. Only six spaces were occupied, including my Jeep, which was parked about forty feet away. I looked around the corner of the doorway. A cop stood at the top of the exit ramp looking out at the street. S.F.P.D. I remotely unlocked the Jeep. The parking lights flashed. The cop didn't turn around. I'd long ago disabled that irritating locking/unlocking high-twitter option. I walked casually to the back hatch and opened it gently. The Jeep was positioned pointing toward the elevator. The cop at the exit was to my front-right. If he turned around he would have to look through the back passenger-side window to see me. I stayed to the back left side of the hatch. I didn't have much time. I could only take essentials. The laptop would have to stay up front. I opened a small interior hatch on the right inside panel and removed the three-dart tranquilizer gun where I had stowed it. I opened the carpet hatch where the spare tire, jack, and iron crowbar were stowed. Next to it was a small carry bag. I opened it and removed a matching 49er windbreaker and ballcap. The windbreaker held a two-inch-thick pack of fives, tens, and twenties totaling $1,000. It wasn't enough for what I had planned but it was a start. I put on the windbreaker and the cap. I put the tranq gun in the right pocket of the windbreaker. I grabbed the Stealth Bowie in its sheath and strapped it to the outside of my right calf. Then I went to grab my Heckler and Koch Mark 23 pistol out of the carry bag. It wasn't there. I hadn't removed it. The last time I'd checked it out was about a month ago at a shooting range in San Mateo. I'd searched the house when I discovered the burglary but not my Jeep. I had my Jeep with me that night, so there seemed no point. Whatever. No time to figure that out now. He had my gun. Whoever he was. I was standing there looking like Rainman when my cell phone rang. Shit! Time to start permanently leaving it switched to Vibrate. I had my head down as the cop turned around and started walking toward me. I grabbed the cell and held it to my right ear. The better to keep my face covered on that side. "Hi, this is Paul." I said it loud enough for the cop to hear. He had his right hand resting on his gun as he walked. "Hello?" It was Roxie. "I'm sorry, Mary. I had to work late." The forgive-me-for-disappointing-you husband. "Mac? Is that you?" The cop had covered half the distance. "Excuse me, Sir?" he said. I switched the cell to my left ear, removing the tranq gun with my right hand, keeping it low. "Mary, just meet me at the Little Zocalo. Okay? That's the Little Zocalo. I need to go now." "Sir, could you please step out from behind the vehicle?" He had stopped, about five feet from the front-right of the Jeep. A royal blue BMW Z8 roadster was parked immediately to the right of the Jeep. The cop was exposed between the two. I put down the phone, switching it to Vibrate. I moved to the right and said, "Can I help you?" As I cleared the rear of the Jeep, I looked the cop in the eyes. Young. Mid-twenties. He looked down and saw the tranq gun pointing at him. I fired before he could register what it was. "Sorry," I said as he dropped to the ground. I put the gun in my jacket pocket and ran to the fallen cop. I removed the dart from his breast. Leave as little evidence behind as possible. Unless bloodwork was done within the hour, they'd never know what hit him. I hooked him under his arms and dragged him to the rear of the Jeep. He was tall and heavy. Well-built. I heaved him into the back of the Jeep and folded in his legs. He'd wake up in a few hours, a little groggy and a bitch of a sting in his chest. The blue Z8 beeped loudly and I jumped, startled. A young blonde woman, professionally dressed, was walking across the garage toward it. She looked my way and smiled. As she reached the driver door, she happened to glance at the mound in the back of the Jeep. An uncomprehending look crossed her face, like she had seen Joan Rivers without makeup. I aimed for her left thigh and fired. She looked down at her leg and dropped like a boneless chicken. She hit her head hard on the cement. Sorry, honey. You're going to have a helluva migraine. I removed the dart and put her into the back seat of the Jeep to sleep it off. I had only one dart left. Not good. I slipped the tranq gun back into my jacket pocket. I took her keys and hopped into the Z8 roadster, MSRP $131,500. I'd always wanted to test-drive one. ----- <a href="http://humanhoax.blogspot.com/2006/08/chapter-2.html">Chapter 2</a> <chapter> <center></center><center></center><center><center></center></center>WitNitnoreply@blogger.com