Falling Back to One Read online

  A GENUINE ARCHER BOOK

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below:

  ARCHER/RARE BIRD

  453 South Spring Street · Suite 302 · Los Angeles · CA 90013

  archerlit.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Randy Mason

  Cover Photograph by Sasin Paraksa

  EPUB ISBN: 9781941729212

  “The River Runs” by Randy Mason

  © 1995 Randy Mason (Scattered Light Publishing)

  Lyrics used by permission. All rights reserved.

  “Night” by Randy Mason

  © 1998 Scattered Light Publishing

  Lyrics used by permission. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Mason, Randy, author.

  Title: Falling back to one / Randy Mason.

  Description: A Genuine Archer Book | First Hardcover Edition | New York, NY, Los Angeles, CA : Archer, Rare Bird Books, 2017.

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781941729182 (hardcover)

  Subjects: LCSH Police—Fiction. | Juvenile delinquents—Fiction. | New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. | Suspense fiction. | Suspense fiction. | BISAC FICTION / Suspense. | FICTION / Literary.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.A81755 F35 2017 | DDC 813.6—dc23

  To Dr. Ceci, who first encouraged me, so very many years ago, to write down this story that I, alone, could tell.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  chapter 30

  chapter 31

  chapter 32

  chapter 33

  chapter 34

  chapter 35

  chapter 36

  chapter 37

  chapter 38

  chapter 39

  About the Author

  chapter 1

  September 1974

  EVEN THE STARS THEMSELVES were dying. Beautiful as they were—brilliant sparkles of pure energy shining through light-years of space—they were each destined to one day disappear, some in a spectacular explosion, ultimately pulling whatever was around them into a lightless, lifeless void. As if they’d never existed. Several of the ones she saw glittering right now were already gone—they just didn’t know it yet.

  She lowered her gaze and turned her head away. But in that last hour of darkness, there were miles to go with nothing to do except stare out the dirty, wire-meshed window. So as the minibus continued to roll down the highway, she went back to watching the shadows streaking by, black against black—a cool shiver creeping slowly up her spine. Less than four months ago, as if for the very first time, she’d opened her eyes in the gloom of just such early morning hours. Slouched in a boarded-up doorway, she’d been sleeping in an alley. Black against black had been the shadows there, too, one sliding into the other—a huge two-dimensional mass. Until her eyes had adjusted.

  Garbage was strewn everywhere, a collage of anything and everything people used and threw away. A twisted bicycle frame. A broken sink. An old tire. Torn black bags with garbage cascading out. There were planks of rotting wood and pieces of plastic. And glass—lots of glass—that reflected the minimal light seeping down from the street at the other end.

  Something rustled nearby, and she flinched, grimacing as stiff muscles objected. But it was only a cat, and she watched as it poked its nose inside the debris. But when it crossed through a patch of moonlight that had casually slipped through an absent roof and glassless window, she jumped to her feet, pulse racing, eyes wide. It wasn’t a cat.

  Time stammered and dragged. Alone with the rat. Which was blocking her way while the space turned darker. The moon, continuing its descent, was falling out of alignment with the building’s gaps and holes. And though she wanted to keep her eyes on the enormous rodent going in and out of the trash, its tiny nose sniffing and nudging every object in sight, she found herself looking around at the deepening shadows: strange, ill-defined forms in a strange and unfamiliar place. For she had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there. No idea how to get home.

  Home.

  Not a single image came to mind. Not a single memory. Nothing. She breathed in: not even her own name. Breaking out in a thin film of sweat, she jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans—all empty. And nothing on the ground looked like it could’ve belonged to her. She paused, eyes fixed on the assortment of broken glass littering the pavement, bits and pieces in different shapes and sizes, moving away, getting smaller and smaller. She felt light-headed and very tall. Weightless, like she was floating. Like in a dream.

  A gunshot ripped through the night, and then another, piercing the muffled haze. There were shouts and more gunshots, like little pops. Finally a police siren wailed—stunningly loud.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  But the rat was gone.

  Steps cautious, she moved down the alley, hearing voices as she neared the end. And once she’d reached the street, she stuck her head out just enough to have a clear line of sight. There was no one to the left, but, further down and to the right, three teenage boys in faded jeans and denim jackets were hanging out on the corner and smoking. At first she thought they were arguing, then realized they were teasing each other, following their jokes with playful slaps and punches. She glanced behind her, but the alley only swallowed itself up in the darkness of a dead end.

  She settled back to wait for the boys to leave, the night air not warm enough for merely a T-shirt, her hiding place smelly and gross. But just as she was about to take another look outside, something brushed against her leg, and she jumped, tripping over a box full of rusted metal parts. Heart in her throat, she hugged the wall, but heard nothing—absolutely nothing. And then the stillness grew, pulsing and pressing, until she plunged into the light, every muscle in motion, every nerve on fire. The boys were shouting from close behind: “C’mon, let’s get ’er.” “Yeah, we gonna have us some fun.” “Hey, momma, whatchu runnin fo’?”

  She flew down the cracked and ravaged sidewalks, randomly turning corners, the
background a washed-out, meaningless blur. And though she tore through several areas that were teeming with people—people selling drugs, selling themselves—heads barely turned. Block after block the pavement disappeared beneath her, and she heard, as if from a great distance, the heavy, labored breathing that was her own. She felt the pounding of her feet and the motion of her body running—like it could run that way forever.

  But her pace began to falter. And when she reached an especially dark street, where all but one lonely lamp had been shot out, she ducked into a narrow alley. Deserted and forgotten, relinquished to the night, the buildings on either side of her were completely dark—crumbling, burned-out shells of brick and cement. But with their damaged, aging walls as protection, she slowly picked her way through the blackness and the rubble, trying not to make a sound, trying to control the ragged rhythm of her breath.

  After what seemed like hours, she emerged in the back and found a fire escape ladder hanging down, her sneakers tap-tapping ever so lightly as she clambered up the rungs. And when she reached the first landing, she went to pull the metal steps up behind her, only to stop: the noise would give her away. But it wasn’t until she paused a few flights later that she thought to strain her ears for sounds of her pursuers. Perhaps they’d given up. For all she knew, she’d been running for blocks with no one behind her. She started to smile. And upon thinking she might be safe, she nearly succumbed to a fit of nervous giggles. Safe? She was considering breaking into a condemned building where rats traced mazes in the yard below.

  She peered into the gaping window before her, but it was too dark to see anything, the night still blanketing the city, the moon having disappeared from the horizon. And with the world gone black, and the streets now quiet, she sat with her back against the wall, the rough bricks cool and solid behind her sweat-soaked shirt. But her hair felt unpleasantly damp, and her eyelids were drooping. Hugging her knees to her chest to fend off the encroaching chill, she stared across the roofs, fighting to stay awake.

  Hardly noticeable at first, the sky began to glow: a soft smudge of dusty pink, a faded ribbon of aqua lazily melting into deeper shades of blue. Minutes passed in tranquil pastels. And then the cloudy sky bloomed, her dull gaze widening as fiery streaks of color blazed above the buildings. But as the sun rose higher, the vivid hues retreated. And when she looked through the window again, pale morning rays were illuminating the interior.

  High above walls covered with graffiti, bare bulbs dangled from a ceiling of chipped and peeling paint. The floor was littered with matchbooks, empty cigarette packs, cigarette butts, candy wrappers, crumpled magazines, beer cans … Her eyes settled on the red vinyl sofa in the middle of the room, its yellow foam stuffing—turning orange—pushing through several large rips in the material.

  She climbed through the window only to hesitate: the building was falling apart; the very floor she was standing on might give way. But then she looked at all of the stuff lying around: proof that plenty of people had been there. Not letting herself think about the dust, the dirt, or whatever might be crawling all over the floor, she went to the sofa, cleared a space, and lay down to sleep.

  But only a few hours later, a shadow fell across her eyes, which fluttered open to a large fist wrapped around the handle of a knife. Slowly, her gaze shifted upward from a pair of worn, torn jeans to a mane of dirty blond hair that fell slightly below tensed shoulders, two penetrating blue eyes staring back from a rugged, stubbled face.

  That was how she’d met Tim Reilly.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  THE BUS HIT A nasty pothole, jarring her out of her reverie. In the blush of dawn, they’d reached the southern section of the Bronx. One after another, decaying, abandoned buildings passed by, some with fake windows painted onto panels of wood to replace the missing panes of glass—like that really looked any better. An eerie sensation crept over her: these were the very streets she’d come from.

  “We’ll be there in about thirty minutes or so.” It was the only thing the guard had said to her since they’d boarded the bus, though he and the female driver had been flirting since the trip began.

  Micki was the only passenger.

  And while it first seemed as if they were heading to someplace in Queens, they ultimately drove through a tunnel and went crosstown on the city’s relatively quiet and desolate pre-rush-hour streets. Through the window, Micki could feel the dark side of Manhattan, lying in wait, calmly watching through bloodthirsty eyes. The knot in her stomach tightened. If she could’ve, she would’ve gotten up and moved around a little, but her left hand was cuffed to the seat. At least they hadn’t shackled her feet together, too.

  The guard, who was standing at the front of the bus, was laughing at something the driver had said. Micki looked at him in his uniform: the gun, the cuffs, the baton … But she was leaving all that behind, getting out of that hellhole they politely called a reform school. What she didn’t know was exactly what she was getting into. At first they’d told her her release would be on a trial basis; then they’d said it would be for a whole year—unless she violated the terms. First they said she’d be living with her legal guardian; then they said she’d be living alone, claiming she was old enough—which made it sound more like parole. She knew something wasn’t right, but what the hell. She just nodded in agreement with whatever they said, essentially yes-ing them to death: yes, she’d take a full high-school-senior program; yes, she’d also work a job after school to support herself; yes, she wouldn’t use any drugs or alcohol; wouldn’t associate with criminals; would honor a ten o’clock curfew (set late to accommodate her job) … And on and on it went, an endless litany of rules.

  They’d refused to tell her anything about her guardian except that he was a cop. She was surprised it was going to be a man. What if he—

  With a jolt and a screech of brakes, the bus came to its final stop. They were in front of a midtown precinct, a full array of police vehicles around them. The guard walked back. “Get up.” He uncuffed her from the seat, then loosely cuffed her hands together in front. “Let’s go.”

  Stomach in a twist, she walked down the aisle ahead of him, then awkwardly descended the steps. She hated the damn handcuffs.

  “Good luck,” the bus driver called after her, and handed the guard the gym bag containing Micki’s few possessions. The staff shrink had provided the cheap duffle to replace the standard paper bag—a going-away present of sorts.

  “Be back in a few,” the guard said to the driver. “Let’s catch some breakfast before we hit the road again.” The two smiled at each other.

  The guard took Micki’s arm and led her into the station house. None of the air conditioners were working, and the air, already heavy and sticky with the promise of another post–Labor Day scorcher, felt worse than it had outside. Micki scanned the room and saw a lot of people moving around, but no one was paying any attention to her; no one looked like they’d been waiting for her to arrive. The pain in her stomach grew stronger.

  The guard pulled her along until they reached the desk sergeant, who was talking to a cop with a scruffy-looking suspect in tow. Micki waited with the guard to the side of the massive wooden desk, which seemed too large for the size of the room. But when she ran her finger around one of the ornate black curls that formed the heavy iron railing in front of it, the guard jerked her hand away: “Don’t touch anything.” And once it was their turn to approach, he made a point of leaning in to talk, the men’s voices so low she couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  “C’mon.” He grabbed her upper arm and tugged her back toward the door.

  “Wait. Where’re we going?”

  He yanked her along more roughly. “We’re too early, that’s all.”

  She stopped resisting, but kept looking at him from the corner of her eye.

  Outside, the bus driver scowled at their joint return and swept her blonde bangs out of he
r eyes. “What happened?” Sitting on the steps of the old, dinged-up vehicle, she’d been taking advantage of its shady interior. She pushed herself up and dusted off the ample seat of her uniform.

  “Nothing,” the guard said. “We just got here too soon. Let’s find a place to eat. I’m starving.”

  So the lanky guard and the bus driver, with Micki in between, headed down the street past closed and gated wholesale stores selling mostly furs and leather goods. On the corner they found an open coffee shop, crowded and noisy with a bunch of early-early midtown office workers and some cops from the next shift. Several solitary diners were reading newspapers while gulping down greasy food and strong coffee.

  The three took a booth in the corner, and, in less than a minute, the table was cleared, wiped, and reset. Micki sat near the wall, the guard next to her, and the driver across from him. Their waitress—in a pink-and-white uniform, wisps of hair floating free from her bun—came by with a pot of coffee and immediately filled their cups. She set the carafe down with a thud, then pulled out her pad and pen.

  “Ready to order?”

  The bus driver said she’d have waffles with a side of bacon.

  The guard ordered the Spanish omelet.

  But Micki had barely read the first part of the oversized, laminated menu. Going on for four pages, the list of platters and variations seemed endless. She’d found the pancakes under “From the Griddle,” but even then: plain, banana, blueberry, silver dollar … With all eyes upon her, waiting, she could feel the heat rising in her face. “I’ll just have the coffee,” she said.

  The waitress scooped up the menus and whisked the pot away.

  The bus driver reached for the container of sugar.

  The guard took a sip from his mug and unfolded his napkin.

  And Micki, once she saw no one else making a move for it, reached for the creamer, nearly knocking over her cup. When she caught several civilians at a nearby table stealing glances, she gave them a nasty look, then held her cuffed hands out to the guard. “Can’t you take these things off me now?”

  “Forget it. It’s my ass on the line until I hand you over.”