Part 2: 8 - Nova
It goes for a while until it doesn't
Things That Can’t Be Broken is a novel presented as a live draft, one chapter every week.
Last week: Part 2: Chapter 7 - Guilt and Ice Cream • Barb gets conflicting messages
Part 2 | History is a Pile of Debris
8 - Nova
Deputy Alexander Ocampo
June 14, 1988
El Cajon, California
Ocampo stacked the day’s paperwork and handed it to the clerk. The team was stumped for the moment and it was time for Ocampo to call it a day. The tip from the reporter yesterday, which led them to Todd Allen’s green car, was dismally helpful. Veronica Stevens got her scoop for ABC, taking her broadcast just a hair short of an accusation. The other TV stations followed suit. At that time, there was still some hope the child might be alive somewhere.
But when Ocampo came in last night to work his shift, the vibe was dark. Dani Cartwright’s body had been found, neck broken, with no other obvious wounds, stuffed in a large black duffle bag and buried at the foot of a tree outside Allen Haven Ranch. Todd Allen, who ran a youth horsemanship program along with his wife, remained the only suspect in the murder investigation, on grounds even thinner than office coffee.
Was Allen really the sicko child-killer they were looking for? He was out driving that night. He didn’t deny it. And his late-sixties lime green car fit the description. They had hauled the Pontiac GTO in even before they found the girl’s body. The ground by the tree in front of the Allen Haven Ranch gate was freshly churned up, and there were slight tire ruts indicating someone had backed up to it, but there were no easily identifiable tread patterns in the pepper tree debris, and the gravel on the drive showed nothing either. A killer wouldn’t bury a child a few yards outside of his own front gate—unless he wanted to get caught, not when there were acres of other possibilities in the surrounding area. And while some final analysis was still pending on the car, so far there was zero evidence Dani Cartwright had ever been anywhere near Allen’s vehicle.
As Ocampo reached for the back door to the parking lot, Chavez stopped him. “Hey Alex, don’t leave yet. Your crazy friend is out front. He wants to talk to you.”
“Kiko?” Ocampo asked, though who else could it be?
Chavez raised his eyebrows and tipped his head toward the lobby.
Ocampo shook his head at Chavez, “Kiko is a vet, man, have some respect.”
Chavez raised a hand in apology, “Ok, your crazy vet friend is out front. Please go talk to him.”
The smell wafting from the lobby was a combination of freshly crushed sage, diesel, grease, and body odor. Alone at the front counter, stood a skinny Hispanic man in a dirty straw cowboy hat, rose-embroidered denim jacket, dusty black jeans, and pointy-toed high-heeled cowboy boots. Kiko, the one and only. Despite the scene he created, or maybe because of it, Ocampo was pleased to see him there. He put out a friendly hand, which was received warmly, “Kiko, how can I help you?”
“Deputy, I think I know who killed the little girl.” Kiko’s glance shifted around the room.
Ocampo pulled out his notepad and pen. He knew Kiko. He was likely to bolt if he tried to bring him any further inside the building to a private office. So he gestured a hand to a worn upholstered vinyl chair and sat down across from him right there in the lobby. Kiko perched at the chair’s edge, clutching one of its arms and glancing frequently toward the door, ready to lunge if necessary.
Ocampo noticed several ears perked in his direction, including Lieutenant White’s. He smiled, “I’m listening, Kiko.”
Kiko spoke quickly, “Mira, I work at Blackwell’s shop, you know. Wednesday morning, a driver, a big muscular vato, brought in a rig for some work. An Imperial Transport rig. A smaller hombrito came to pick him up in a green car, lime green with matching rims. It was a Chevy Nova. No question. I had one like it just before ‘Nam. Pero rojo. Pops gave me shit for it.” All the eyes were turned toward Kiko now, and he seemed enlivened by the attention. “‘Ay, carumba!’ Pops would say, ‘no va!’”
At that, Kiko let out a full-throated laugh, taking off his cowboy hat and ruffling his greying hair until it stuck out in every direction. He glanced around at the stares, widened his eyes, and gave a toothy grin like he was on stage at the comedy bar. “Anyway, Deputy, it had a vacuum leak. I got it running pronto, in just few hours, but you know what? It’s still there!”
“Can you tell me more about the two men?” Ocampo asked.
“They were enojado with each other. Hombrito said to Big Vato, ‘Ramón needs his order filled para la tiendita dulce.”
“Little sweet shop?” Ocampo translated. Tienda dulce was usually slang for drug dealer, but it could be something else. He saw Lieutenant White lean closer.
Kiko continued, “Sí, all this was in Spanish. Big Vato said that he didn’t work for him anymore, that Ramón was a cochino, a pig. And Hombrito said, ‘then you better start digging’. . . It was a threat, Deputy.”
“You heard the name Ramón? Any other names? Do you the know the names of Hombrito or Big Vato?”
“No, pero Jerry Blackwell will have paperwork for the driver. I’m just telling you what I heard, Deputy. God help me,” said Kiko. The words pinched off and tears started streaming from Kiko’s eyes. He wiped a hand over his face. “I was all in my head that day. Pero . . . there was evil on those two, luz maligna. I felt it. I should have come to you then.” Kiko drummed the rim of his hat with his fingers.
Compassion welled in Ocampo, “You’re here now.”
“Pero,” Kiko shrunk, his head to his knees, and broke into a sob. “La niña bonita. . . Está muerta!”
Ocampo put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m glad you came here today, Kiko. Is there anything else you can tell us?” said Ocampo.
Kiko’s eyes fixed hard on Ocampo’s. “She is very angry.”
Kiko Gonzalez
June 16-17, 1988
Dehesa Valley, California
Days later, Kiko was on his way up the trail from the highway after working at Blackwell’s all afternoon. He was certain Todd Allen was not the killer, but no one else knew that. There was nothing new on the news about the murder investigation. Jerry said he hadn’t seen anything, either.
Kiko peered down at Allen Haven Ranch. The horses were snorting and moving about much more than usual. He glanced at the sun almost brushing the top of the mountain. It must be close to feeding time. Then he saw something brown dash between two outbuildings. A rabbit? No. A loud cackle of chickens rose with a flurry of feathers. Coyotes!
Kiko shouted, “Jefe!” Two coyotes scattered in different directions. “Coyotes are after your chickens!”
No one appeared. He skidded down the side of the steep hill, sending up a cloud of dust and a rain of rocks as he dashed between the brush and cactus. A third coyote snatched a chicken as Kiko reached the fence line. He gave a loud whistle, and it ran off with the bird, leaving a trail of feathers.
“Hello!” Kiko shouted and whistled again. He didn’t like the idea of trespassing, but the coyotes would be back to finish off the chickens if he didn’t get them safely into their coop. He raised himself up, placed a boot on the top rail of the chain link fence, and hopped down, landing with an, “Uhmph,” almost tumbling down the bank, arms flailing. No one had appeared, and he hadn’t been shot yet.
Three chickens were still wandering around the yard. No doubt that pack of coyotes wasn’t far away, waiting for another opportunity to grab an easy meal. He spied a coffee can by the coop door and threw a handful of sandy dirt inside, shaking it. Sure enough, the three remaining hens came running. He opened the gate, threw the sand into the coop, and closed it behind them once they were all inside. A candle-bright image of Holy Mary flashed across his mind for a moment, along with a memory of his mother’s voice, “Pensa los otros, mijo.”
Good deed done for the day, Kiko hauled himself back over the fence. He heard the crunch of gravel below and saw a blue minivan pulling up outside the hay shed. A woman in pink sweats jumped out. It seemed the horses would get fed after all. Kiko continued his climb.
The wind was blowing in from the west, bringing the clouds back to settle in the valley for the night. Only the brightest stars were ever visible, and tonight the moon would still be little more than a sliver until the curtain of clouds closed them off. Kiko sat cross-legged, rattling on a high boulder. The lights of houses glowed far below. He closed his eyes, pulled out his rattle, and touched it to his forehead for a moment.
The girl he now knew as Dani, sat down in front of him, cross-legged, silently hovering among the stars. He was used to seeing her by now. She was around a lot the last few days, as if keeping an eye on him. He’d done what he could. He went to the Sheriff’s station and told Ocampo who took the girl. Yet she persisted, her image glued to the backs of his eyelids. Kiko didn’t mind her company so much. He imagined she was clearing her mind too, that while he was rattling, quieting himself, he was also soothing this ghost. It added a feeling of purpose. The corners of his mouth turned up. Kiko, ghost guru.
He soon gave himself over to the rhythm of the rattle, and the girl became a kitten perched on a windowsill. Hours passed in peace before Kiko became aware of Dani again. He watched as she turned her head to the left, then slowly to the right, as if something was happening in front of her that wasn’t him. He continued to rattle, keeping an eye on her image before him. She stared to the left again, following whatever she was watching for several minutes, when suddenly her eyes grew big, and she startled.
At the same time, Kiko’s eyes flew open, and the earth seemed to tremble for a moment. Not a roll like an earthquake, it was more of a single giant “THUMP.” Kiko felt it through the granite under him. Dani was no longer there. He slowly rose to his feet and continued his rattling, giving his whole body to the sound. As he moved and slowly swayed, the darkness fell away. When the sky began to brighten at its edges, he lowered himself onto his blanket to welcome sleep.
The sun was high in the sky and growing hot when Kiko awoke, thirsty. He wound his way down the mountain trail with at least an hour of walking ahead of him, his canteen empty. The water cooler in the corner behind the red Snap-on cabinet at Blackwell’s was a glowing blue beacon in his mind.
Kiko stopped to consider the trail while the sun beat onto his shoulders. The ravine was a shady shortcut. It seemed worth the scramble over boulders and steep drops today. He ducked under the brush and crawled to the edge, letting himself down over the first drop, while scanning the landing for rattlesnakes. When he reached a point where no foot placement was available, he remembered why he always stuck to his regular trails. Crouching and leaning back and forth on his forearms like a sunning lizard, he squinted into the brush around him for any sign of a trail, any trail, even a rabbit trail. Something metallic glinted through the tangle of branches and leaves down the canyon on his left. Was the road this close already?
He was glad of his jacket sleeves as he moved away from the ravine, weaving under and through the brush again toward the metallic glimmer. A crow called overhead and then another, arguing about something. Then an entire murder flew straight up from a small group of sycamores and oaks below him. The rising heat carried a slight ominous smell and Kiko began to suspect the glint was indeed a car, but perhaps nowhere near a road. Someone may need help.
Crawling and climbing as fast as he could toward a sinking dread, he saw the inside of a hubcap wedged into an old burnt stump leftover from the last wildfire. He lifted a hand to shade his eyes as he peered up through a patch of creosote bushes, trying to locate where the hubcap could have fallen from, but he could see nothing. He knew there was a road up there somewhere, and if he remembered correctly, it was a very narrow, rutted, and treacherous fire road.
That thump last night. Kiko’s stomach did a small flip.
Crawling on his belly, his ears filled with the sound of dry leaves rustling under him. He blinked hard. Mira! The car’s hood was crushed up against a boulder. The rest of it hung half-suspended in another oak. He called out, “Hello!”
Nothing. A crow called and its friends settled nearby. “Hola!”
The car was lime green. How many could there be? Kiko opened his mouth in a silent laugh. Then shook his head at himself, making the sign of the cross with his right hand. He climbed up the bank of the ravine, digging his boots into the earth, searching for roots to stand on, and grabbing at branches until he could look down into the car’s driver side window.
Sure enough. It was Big Vato. He couldn’t see the face, but the size of him and the tattoos. That was him. Hijo de la grandísima puta. He wished the man had suffered, but his head was halfway through the windshield and crushed into that boulder. Other than perhaps the terror of falling from the road, he probably had not felt a thing.
Kiko looked up, “There he is, Dani. Terminado.” He would have to find the deputy again.
Next
Part 2 | History is a Pile of Debris
9 - Locked
Behind-the-Scenes Extra
I launched the audio podcast of Things That Can’t Be Broken with a recording of the first chapter this week. The launch didn’t go off without a hitch, but I’m happy enough with the recording itself, which you can find here. I will release more audio chapters as I find quiet moments to record them for you. I hope you will enjoy my readings when you don’t have time or prefer not to read them yourself.
I love this character and this chapter was satisfying in a sad way. I also am contemplating an audiobook; I wish I liked my voice enough to fearlessly try it!