He was proud of his skill as a surgeon, proud of his patient. 'I think that last surgery was pivotal,' he said. 'We restored blood flow, debrided the dead tissue. Got the intracranial pressure up.'
'I can't thank you enough,' I said. But underneath, I suspected that it wasn't so much Luther as it was John Bodine, or Chief O, or some crazy African mojo that was responsible for waking her up and bringing her back.
Later that week I met with Tony Filosiani in his office at Parker Center. Great White Mike had cleared his things out and retreated, to the routine and safety of the Operations Division. Tony looked thin. The weight loss didn't agree with him. He was one of those guys who needed to be cherubic.
'When you coming back on the job full time?' he asked.
'I'm bringing Alexa home in a few weeks. Maybe once she can do things for herself, I'll think about it.'
'Her doctor says she should make a full recovery.' He smiled. 'Her job is waiting, too.'
'Right now I'm just happy to have her back.' Inside, I was still numb. I couldn't escape the terror of how close it had been.
'I know you think I let you down,' Tony said, 'but I couldn't talk about Slade being an undercover. I had a deal with the sheriff to protect Sergeant Wayne.'
'I understand. No hard feelings.'
But even as I said it, I knew things would probably never be the same between us. When he thought Alexa was dead, or dying, he had been willing to let her reputation and her memory be destroyed. There should have been better options. On the other hand, I never understood how things got done in the political environs above the fifth floor, so I tried hard not to judge him.
Football season was almost over. Chooch had returned to school and ended up quarterbacking the scout team as a red shirt. He seemed bigger and stronger. Delfina was halfway through her senior year, getting A's and narrowing down her college application list.
We brought Alexa home the second week of December. She moved carefully around our Venice house, a little rickety, with headaches and fingertip numbness. Big parts of her memory were gone. She seemed solemn and distant much of the time, as if the universe had shifted and she was having trouble fitting it all back together.
One night, just before Christmas, we sat in our backyard, holding hands. Franco, our cat, sat right at Alexa's feet, looking up, watching, guarding her from harm. It was chilly, so I went inside and returned with a blanket to put around her knees. She had wanted to be outside because a family of ducks had arrived and she enjoyed watching them swim with their babies.
'I feel so bad about David Slade,' she finally said. She spoke very slowly, forming her words one at a time, laying them out methodically, as if each one was hooked carefully to the one before. In the past month, this slow speech had been worrisome to me, but Luther told me to give it time.
'What about David Slade?' I asked as Franco finally jumped up into her lap, turned around three times, and then plopped down.
She looked over at me and said, 'I used to date him.'
'I know.'
'It was never really serious. He was… he was fun and he had so much potential. He had come so far from where he started. He was a remarkable man.'
'It's okay,' I said. 'You don't have to go through it. I had relationships before I met you.' I didn't want to hear any of this.
'It wasn't like that,' she persisted. 'We went out. And we were friends, not lovers. But Shane, I feel so responsible for what happened to him.'
'You didn't put him undercover,' I reminded her.
'But I knew it was getting dangerous. I should have pulled him out. I got greedy. I wanted what he was bringing. I gambled with his life, and lost.'
'It's not an easy job you've got,' I told her. 'It was the same thing I'd said to Elijah Mustafa.'
She squeezed my hand. The ducks swam into view. A mother, a father, and four ducklings. Alexa tore a piece of bread she had brought out with her and tossed it into the canal. The mother duck swerved and grabbed it, never slowing her progress. If you're going to survive in L. A. it was a fast-lane experience, even for ducks.
I changed the subject and somehow we got to talking about the horrible month when she was in the coma.
I told her about Jonathan Bodine. How I'd hit him with the car that night after the training day, and how he stole her computer with the e-mails. I also told her how I thought he had saved her life by stealing her bed and doing a fire dance in the basement of the hospice. I hadn't gone into too much of this before, because I still didn't know how much of his crazy mojo I was ready to buy into.
'You believe all that?' she finally asked, when I had finished. 'You think he talks to dead people?'
She was watching me carefully and her face glowed in the moonlight. I could now begin to see her again the way she'd been six months ago, before all of this had happened. I knew one day soon she would be completely restored. It was a miracle.
'I don't know what I believe,' I finally said, but then I suddenly changed my mind. 'Yes, yes I do,' I corrected myself. 'I think John had something to do with it. I know this is nuts, but I think God sent him to us. Maybe it was not an accident that I ran him over. Maybe it was God's will.'
She sat quietly, petting Franco.
'On cold nights like this, I worry about John,' I continued. 'He's out there alone. Nobody on the Nickel likes him. He's not very healthy. No meat on him. Street people beat him up because he steals their stuff.'
'You want to see if we can find him?' Alexa asked.
That was one of the things I loved about her. She knew how to indulge me without ridiculing me.
'Yes. I want to find him. He's probably hungry. He never eats a regular meal unless I buy it.'
'Then let's go,' she said, standing up.
We got into the Acura and I bundled the blanket around her. Then I went back into the house and pulled my new thick parka with the fur collar and pair of sweatpants out of the closet. Both presents for John Bodine if I could find him. Last, I grabbed some fifty-dollar bills.
We set off looking. I drove to the Nickel and talked to Horizontal Joe.
'That guy?' the sleeping man grumbled. 'If he ain't already dead, somebody oughta kill the prick.'
I talked to a hooker with brown teeth who shot heroin and turned her tricks inside the Alices. Her street name was Connect-the-Dots because of all the needle scabs on her arms.
'Nobody keeps track a that nigga,' she said.
I checked the Weingart Center and most of the SRO hotels. Nobody had seen him recently, nor really wanted to. I even drove over to the Pacific Electric tunnel and asked some old men who were walking out.
'Man's a sorry waste a skin and groceries,' one of them grumbled.
It was getting late, and I saw that Alexa was getting cold and tired. So I put the car in gear and headed home. On our way, I happened to drive past the L. A. Library on Fifth Street. It's an imposing architectural structure that bears Byzantine, Roman, and Egyptian influences with some Spanish and modern themes. The building has survived earthquakes, fire, and one ill-advised attempt at civic improvement. It has been beautifully restored and now houses millions of volumes. I'd always been amazed that John had quoted Tonio Kroger. It had surprised me when he'd mentioned a Dantean nightmare. When I'd hit him, all those months ago, we were just one block from here.
I pulled the car to the curb and told Alexa that I would be right back. Then I ran up the steps of the library and went inside.
'Do you have a guy who comes in here, got a terrible haircut with chopped off dreads? Skinny, homeless black guy who smells bad?'
'Classic literature, second floor,' the librarian said without even looking up.
That's where I found him. He was still wearing Chooch's sweatshirt. The blood had been washed off, but the knife holes were still there.
'John?' I said.
He turned, a book of Shakespearian plays in his grimy hands.
'How ya doin', half-stepper?' More or less his standard greeting.
'I've been looking all over for you. It's cold outside. I was thinkin' you could come home with me, get a hot meal, stay a few days till this cold snap passes.'
