Chapter Eight
I had to battle the fog until I turned eastward and climbed over the Santa Susanna Pass into the San Fernando Valley. One could not see the shoulder of the road; sound was distorted; it was as thought everything was far in the distance. The cars had to creep along for neither a tail light nor a headlight could be seen from more than fifteen feet away. I felt entirely alone, isolated.
I repeatedly remembered the accident in the fog that I had in the dream a few years ago; the one that had finally sent me scurrying to Grandmother. The screams and the cruch of metal. Once I hit clear sky, though, those thoughts passed from my mind. I began thinking about Amber. I did not want to see her in real life, or I should say, real death. It was one thing to see her death in a dream--- it was just that - a dream, but to see her in reality was quite another matter.
I had always managed to avoid anything associated with death. I intensely disliked hospitals and had never attended a funeral or a memorial service, not even my parents' or Grandmother's. I hope they understood--- the other relatives did not. As a child, I was terrified of cemeteries. "They 'felt' funny," was the best I could describe them. NOrmally, it would all indicate the fear of dying. The odd thing, however, is that I have no such fear. I may be timid about the ending of an old condition and the entrance into something totally unknown, but I am not afraid of it. I may even welcome it. I only pray that if there is a heave, it will be a place of eternal, dreamless sleep. If it is not, and hell is the place of oblivion, may I go there. This world and the people who inhabit it have always tired me so. I like to believe that, perhaps, had I not been graced with this "gift," I should have felt differently. Do not misunderstand me; I shall fight long and hard to remain in this world, but when the time finally arrives, I shall not regret it, at least not much. I chuckled over all my little, insignificant phobias.
During the remaining distance to my destination, I tried to concentrate on driving. I didn't want to think about Amber or anything else connected with these nightmares any more. Nevertheless, I saw that man, that demon, again and again. I couldn't get him out of my mind. It made me uneasy. I had the vague feeling that there was something familiar about him. Maybe, it was only in the way he moved. After all, I had seen him twice before, but , somehow, that just didn't seem to be it.
It was dark and the usual overcast had filled the sky by the time I had turned into the parking lot at the police station. Again I found myself walkding down those cold, impersonal corridors to the room full of gray desks, each equipped with their own gray chair and beige typewriter. Within five minutes of my arrival in the parking lot, I was seated in Carter's cluttered, dusty office. Williams was halfway seated on the desk and Carter was in his proper place behind it. I related the complete story as minutely as I could recall. Each officer maintained an incredulous expression on his face, but seemed willing enough to accept what I said as the truth.
"I'm not sure if I can find the place at night, but I'll try," I said. "I'm pretty sure he picked her up at the Santa Monica Blvd. on-ramp headed south. It was congested, as usual, and the cars coming from the east had to go under the freeway and then make the left turn onto the on-ramp. I've been there often enough to know it well."
"But are you sure the cars were coming from the east?" asked Williams.
"Uh, uh." I nodded my head affirmatively. "You don't make a left turn to get onto any other ramp. Besides, it was late afternoon. They were driving into the sun, which would have been in the west.
"I think he must have taken her up into Baldwin Hills. They weren't on the freeway very long until they got off--- again to the left. They passed under two large interchanges too, I think--- and she mentioned a big cemetery."
"Could be Hillside or Holy Cross," suggested Williams.
"Well," said Carter, "we might as well try to find this place now, instead of
sittin' round here talkin' 'bout it."
Down to the garage we went, to a dark blue, unmarked police car. It was different from the one they had been driving the other day. "Sit in the front seat," ordered Carter, just as I was about to climb into the back. "You'll be able to see better."
"And," I thought, "you'll be able to watch me better."
Once out in the street, I thought of how much better Los Angeles looks at night than it does in the day. At night, one can't see as much. I gazed at the neon signs, the billboards, and the occasional hooker out to find herself a "john".
This brialliant moment of meditation was unexpectedly disturbed by Lieut. Carter. "All this stuff about your seeing things. Is it really true?" he questioned hesitantly.
"Unfortunately," I replied.
"My gran-pap used to tell me such stories about the shamans, the medicine men, and the visions of the warriors. "Vision quest," they called it. I always thought it was a lot of bunk and superstition."
"At last," I thought, "here's the chance to open this man up--- to draw him out of his cold, hard shell, and to maybe win him over."
"What tribe?" I asked.
"Oglala Sioux. He was a half-blood."
"That was Sitting Bull's bunch, wasn't it?" I sought to show my education.
"No. Crazy Horse's. Sitting Bull was a Hunkpapa Sioux."
"I see. You're a quarter?"
"A little more," he admitted. "My mom had some Cherokee in her."
"My great-grandmother was Cherokee," I said with surprise. "Who knows, maybe we're related."
"Never know," Carter said thoughtfully. "Mom's people were Rogerses, some kin of Will Rogers."
"My great-grandmother's took the white name of Zeriah Mattox. No one knew what her Cherokee name was. Her mother was a sort of medicine man, at least she knew herbs and doctoring. Matter of fact, I still have her herb pouch. Maybe that's why this sight, or whatever it is, has affected me so strongly. Maybe I got a double dose. One from Myrrddin and one from her. You know, I've never thought of that before."
"Who's Myrddin?" questioned Williams from the backseat.
"Long story. I'll tell you about it some time," I answered evasively.
Carter continued, "I thought you were supposed to be strictly Virginia blueblood?"
"No, only seven-eighths Virginia blueblood. The other eighth is Cherokee blueblood."
The stone-faced cop chuckled. So he was a human being after all.
"Here's the Santa Monica ramp," the sergeant interrupted.
"Yah, this is where he picked her up. I'm certain. She was standing right undereath that sign." I pointed to the black and white sign that read: "Pedestrians, bicycles, and motor-driven cycles not permitted on freeway." We rolled into the traffic, which was still rather slow and heavy, despite its being after nine o'clock. I absent-mindedly watched the eternal line of red lights on the right and of white lights at the left. Where do they all come from? Where are they all going? Each person isolated in his own steel cubicle, thinking his own inconsequential, egocentric thoughts. The lines never begin and they never end. It remainded me of an ants' trail. What do they care that a talented, young girl will never see anything again, never think the thoughts they are thinking again. They won't even give it a thought when they hear or read about it in the news.
"Here's the first interchange. It's the Santa Monica Freeway," Williams again interposed.
"I'm sure they passed under here. I remember shadows flitted across her face for a few seconds. The sounds changed too--- sort of echoed.
"You know, it was strange. Once she entered the car, all I ever saw was her face, except for a glimpse ofhis hands. The background was all blurry, at least until the car stopped. That guy seemed very familiar to me. I'm alsmost positive I've seen him before, somewhere," I mumbled.
"Once we do find this place, if it exists, and prove what you saw really happened, I want you to go through the mug books to see if you can spot him," Carter remarked, as though he hadn't heard a wthing I'd said. He must have been off in his own little world. Oh, well, it didn't matter much anyway.
"Won't do any good. He's not in them," I replied.
"How do you know?" Carter was becoming slightly irritated.
"I just know."
"All right, but I want you to look anyway. Then if that doesn't work, you can describe him to hour artist."
"I'd rather do the artist first," I said flatly, "before my mind gets cluttered up with faces."
"Whatever you say," was the exasperated reply.
"This is the second one. Get off here and turn left."
"How do you know they turned left?" Carter queried.
"Amber swayed to the right," I explained.
"You're pretty observant. Maybe you oughta be a cop."
I felt that was quite a compliment to extract from the lieutenant. "I'd never pass the physical, let alone the mental qualifications," I replied with a laugh. "Now go straight for about two minutes, then turn right."
"There's the cemetery!" interjected Wilson. "Holy Cross."
Five minutes later we found ourselves in a residential area, intersected by a multitude of streets. I was totally confused. "You'd better stop. Pull over. I'm all mixed up."
"It might be best to wait til daylight, anyway. We'll drop you off at your place. You can pick up your car tomorrow. Maybe, if you sleep on it, everything will be clearer in the morning," Carter said calmly, as he turned the car around.
"Or hazier," I disgustedly answered.
I couldn't get over the enormous change in Lieut. Carter's attitude towards me. I felt as though he had accepted me somewhat. It couldn't be because I had Indian blood. He wouldn't let himself be influenced by anything that so insignificantly affected the problem. Unless, of course, it was all another ploy. This time, instead of hassling me, he might be trying to gain my confidence in hopes that I might spill something that he thought I knew. He could be laying a trap. I contemplated this proposition all the way back to my apartment.
See you in the morning, 'bout six?" Carter called, leaning across to the passenger's window, while Williams prepared to move up front.
"Sure, see you in the morning," I replied over my shoulder, as I opened the
lobby doors. Turning to go up the stairs, I saw the blue sedan drive away. I then
went upstairs and put myself to bed. However, I found it difficult to slide into sleep.
I kept imagining what I would see in the morning, once Amber had been found. At
last, I slipped off into what could not be termed a restful sleep, by any definition of
the word.
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