Beyond the White

By J. Clement Phillips

Justin Fuller is the caretaker of his identical twin brother Brenden. In this world Justin holds authority as  provider and protector of his cognitively disabled brother. When Justin finds himself thrust into a strange unknown white realm, he needs to deal with many unexplainable truths. I

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Phillips
• Release date: Oct 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734986020

Book preview

Chapter 1

The plans for Prospect Park showed a wholesome open space for the surrounding community to enjoy. The thumbs up from the planning department of Sequoia County in the fall of 1941 revealed a forty-acre pristine project.

Part of the features included a sixteen swing play ground with five teeter-totters, three slides and a small merry-go-round. Near the playground sat a unique, although at quarter scale, an authentic Mark Twain stream boat with a working whistle. A stationary ship, meant for climbing, would also have a working paddle wheel on the end, continually moving by water flowing from the Capital River through a concrete build aqueduct just for that purpose.

The Mississippi in Southern California.

The rest of the park held a purpose for sports activities and leisure. There were tables placed throughout for picnicking families. A six-hoop basketball court on one end and eight tennis courts on the other, with flowing green grass connecting everything together.

A custom-built gazebo, large enough to house a wedding party, designed in the very center, with dozens of barbecue pits, hundreds of trees and thousands of planted shrubs spread throughout the entire project. Then Japan bombed Pearl Harbor.

By the time the park became a reality, Figueroa Street bulldozed away half of the park, taking with it any idea for a gazebo. Dozens of single-story tract homes took up residence with an alley as a barrier, made for garbage removal, became the death knell to the steam ship. Miner Street cut another three acres off and Corral two more, leaving a sad patch of grass, no swings, a few scattered park benches, and a three-hoop basketball court on the outer western corner.

The sprawling neighborhoods of single resident homes on all four corners of the park were old before construction. The post-war single-story homes were meant for new suburban minded middle-class families, but none of them got the memo. Many of the starter homes remained vacant without landscape and were in the first stages of deterioration before the first occupants even considered making an offer.

Whether from the lack of concern, or more likely, from the void of any sane minded, wishful, hopeful families, considering a move to this less than opportune area, no one could say.

To move in with a hope able to shine crossed no one’s mind. Just a house on the cheap. None of the first occupants considered picture book memories. No consideration of smiles and laughter around birthday candles on party cakes. No thought of green, red and plaid family Christmas dinners, or songs, sung at a Bar Mitzvah. Four walls and a bath pulled them in with prices miles below anywhere else.

Most of the development went overlooked through outsourcing. The whole development sold while the contractors joked about the small, low end, bottom of the barrel construction. None of the new home buyers had a clue.

The park, and surrounding neighborhoods, never got a break. Sitting in the middle of Sequoia county, and only a few miles from the landlocked city of Sequoia, and ten miles from Santa Monica, it could have been on a different planet.

Western Village became the name given in the planning stage.

Go back to a time when neighbors were friends, the tag line read. Three hundred homes, with Prospect Park at the end. Miner’s road at the north, Merchant Street on the south, Bankers Avenue on the east and Corral on the west. An old west theme, planned community, with smiling faces on billboards to entice those awaiting their opportunity for the American dream. Then the war came.

The committed builders forgot the vision they bought into, and agreements made. They caved in and bent over to investors. Without concern, and with no genuine patriotic allegiances, they sold out for profit. They denied the American dream marketed on the endless printed four-color brochures, accompanied by slimy, sales reps, pitching a few rooms and a bath, all the while promising This is where your dream will come true.

With corners cut, and foundation poured in the middle of the night, they built the rest quick and on the cheap.

The original plans, long since rolled up and put away, left a hodgepodge of tiny homes thrown together and crammed in. The permit process became nonexistence. An unseen greedy hand trashed and replaced the promise of the post war, new deal, for the people in the development. Secretive and short sided agreements left the development of Western Acres as an orphan child left with the stigma of road kill.

As Figueroa bulldozed through as an expressway, and with many other parts siphoned off, the once spectacular planned community turned into one square mile, of pure hell, everyone called The Zone.

In the early days, the area existed only as dirty and broken. As time passed, crime rates inched up with a slight tremor and a rumble, and then the area rose to an unapologetic transition. From innocence to adolescents, with the normal slight rebellious spurts. Within a brief period, the development twisted and contorted from decay and abandonment, into a crescendo of a tectonic quake of crumbling infrastructure and inaccessible dead ends. The hope of the once envisioned paradise became paved over leaving the inhabitants of the Zone in despair.

Crime edged up and increased at a clipped speed as if on auto pilot. The rates were high but tilted toward petty instead of violent.

Drug abuse became a common dredge, prostitution excessive, and the litany of other illicit activities burrowed into the fabric of the community, with one glaring exception. Murder. They weren’t killing each other in the Zone. Sure, the place became a cesspool of debauchery from one corner to the other, with some violence, but very low murder rate.

Death from domestic abuse and suicide happened, plus a stabbing gone wrong, but never from guns. The anomaly caused people, who studied such things, scratching their pointy heads in confusion.

There were no statistical, of morbidity tables to estimate or explain the phenomena. How in such horrifying conditions and excessive crime, and in such a small and contained area, could death by murder not happen?

So, the dead body of the unidentified girl, laying spread eagle under bags of rotting garbage in the park, raised eyebrows higher than normal for two reasons. First, she was not a native of the Zone. An outsider. An imported murder. Done somewhere else and disposed of here. Second, this was the third dead girl left near this exact place and position in the last three months.

For an area of horror, this made the community cringe, especially for officer Ronnie Jimenez.

Although Jimenez was a veteran of the Sequoia County Sheriff’s department, he chose not to move on to detective, or further advancement. By choice he stayed on patrol with his beat being The Zone.

For over a decade and a half, he worked these streets and dedicated himself to the broken community. His job called him to protect and serve. Five years before, he became a resident, so his entire life existed in the Zone.

As Jimenez stood inside the yellow caution tape looking into the unblinking eyes of another unwanted, discarded girl, he felt powerless. Another one. He thought. In the same spot with the same bruises. Just take the stats and leave it for the investigators, he didn’t solve crimes, he walked the beat.

This time, for some unexplained reason, left him uneasy. The memory flooded back. Justin Fuller’s broken and bloody face. The horrifying sound his brother made, and the empty uncaring look in their father’s eyes.

As he looked at the dead girl, he knew she did not come from around here, he knew that for sure. Where did she come from? And more importantly, how did she end up like this in the Zone?

He spent most of the night in the park working the small crowd gathered for a look at the site. The dead girl in their mitts. He was there to keep back the got-to-sees, and drug induced, give-me-a-look, small crowd.

He gave the county investigator a wide birth to do their jobs. As he worked the scene, Jimenez struggled more than usual. He had seen more tragedies than he dared to count. Car wrecks, knifings, domestic abuse, overdoses. This existed way outside the usual.

He saw just about everything in his time patrolling the Zone. But this left him with a frigid darkness he could not shake. Like a living disease trying to dig into his internal organs by burrowing through every pore in his body, chilling him down to his marrow.

Jimenez thought by now, nothing would surprise him. He did not consider himself jaded, or calloused by human cruelty and suffering, just beyond surprise. The horrific things human beings could do to themselves and others did not shock him, but this skinny dead girl with the lifeless eyes did. The sight of another one dug deep in him like nothing he experienced and left him empty and angry.

He found the first by sure coincidence two months ago. A little after three in the morning when he made his second pass through the park he stumbled across a corpse. A quiet night with most of the homeless sleeping as if dead to the world. The few, still awake, muffled their speech as his flash light guided him toward the north end of the park.

Although built as a parking lot for families, while they enjoyed a pleasant Sunday afternoon picnic, no car had parked here in years. No room for even one vehicle. Instead, every item of discarded crap imaginable filled the space.

The two large dented and scared green metal dumpsters held the garbage from the park, but the whole parking lot acted as a communal dumping ground where everyone tossed their unwanted junk.

Old TV’s, broken washing machines, a few torn and stained recliners, a tattered couch and any manner of non-working household appliances found their resting place here.

The county had responsibility for clean up, but as with everything else in the Zone it never became a priority. Sure, the dumpsters got picked up every couple of weeks, but the rest was just left to continue to accumulate and decay.

Jimenez had set an appointment with a supervisor of Sequoia County solid waste, a man named Clagger. At the meeting the middle aged, balding bureaucrat sat fidgety as he looked at the proposal Jimenez typed up.

The county would clean up the parking lot at Prospect Park once and only once. The idea to turn the parking lot into an area with eight solid waste dumpsters held a clear simplicity. Add six more to the two already there. Butt them next to each other, all facing the alley for easy removal by the county. Dumpsters one, three, five, and seven dumped one week and two, four, six and eight the next. Place a chain-link fence on the back side, close enough to allow no garbage finding its way behind. Fill the rest of the parking lot with foliage and landscape. Based on estimates, the expense would be minimal.

Clagger complemented Jimenez on the idea. But in the end, no became the finally answer. Not only no, but an impossibility. He had no choice. If this issue came from for another area in the county, no problem. A school or any other park, even a church or Rotary club, anywhere else he would oblige. Any of them, he would be more than exuberant to help. But not in the Zone. Not there. He could be of no help. Someone had drawn red lights. A separate animal altogether. Clagger had no say in the matter, he just fell in line.

Jimenez believed himself to be upbeat by nature and optimistic when he went to the meeting. Just a simple idea to solve an insignificant problem rectified by one stroke of the pen. Add a few dumpsters, put up a fence and a bit of landscape, problem solved. No more litter, garbage dumping. The eyesore and putrid smell gone by one signature on a singular governmental form. Clagger had the power and ability to take care of the issue.

There were thousands of other more intense and unattainable difficulties needing attention in the ghetto. A redesign of garbage pickup seemed lower than low on the horizon of the pressing issues inflicting the Zone.

Jimenez gave in a long time ago to solving the weightier issues that straggled the zone. Content with his calling to have influence in the few areas he could affect. Helping some elderly neighbors with yard work, fix a broken pipe, put up a new light fixture or other repairs. He spent time with several adolescent kids who showed promise and did what he could to influence and guide them toward opportunities for a better future. He did what he could to assist the Sisters of little Flower in their ministry to the children of the Zone. Other than that, he saw himself as just a cop in the community.

All the larger issues, in the area, he could do nothing about, and he left off his radar. No big aspirations, no higher calling, just a servant to the place he called home.

As he sat in the flimsy chair across from the stuttering bureaucrat, Jimenez felt confused. What is the difficulty? Why the concern? A few garbage cans and a fence. Not an enormous deal. Then he found out.

Clagger let it out. Like an addicted gambler placing his life savings on the table, he showed his cards. The whispered secret slithered its way through all the county departments beyond the ears of Jimenez. Clagger found it surprising the officer did not know about the philosophy and clear decree. I have plenty of authority to shift and make concessions in other communities, but not the Zone. He told Jimenez.

The orders are explicit and come from above him. The Zone needed to stay as is. Don’t ask for anything more. Jimenez listened and learned, hoping Clagger would reveal where the dictate came from, but that never appeared on the table.

Jimenez left the office confused. He decided right there to take care of the problem himself.

Two days later he rented a truck on his own dime and moved all the trash in the parking lot to the county dump. It took him three trips, and over seven hours, to get it all cleaned up. It stayed that way and open for cars for three days. Within a week, the refuse returned with a fiery and by month’s end, more crap filled the place.

That was two years ago, and as he made his way through the mind field of the dump, his flashlight cut a path for him.

As he stepped over two abandoned tires, he caught a flicker of something out of the corner of his eye. A shine of red. He brought his light back and studied the anomaly. Jimenez saw it sticking out from under several piles of garbage. He bent for a closer look and squinted to allow his eyes to adjust. An unbalanced heaviness surrounded him as he saw them. Four fine polished bright red acrylic finger nails, attached to a thin brown wrist. He pulled an overstuffed large dark garbage bag away. Then a smaller white one, tied with orange handles. He squinted again for adjustment and saw what, in his guts, he hoped not to see.

She appeared young, maybe twenty years, bare footed and half naked. Under the beam of his light he could make out the bruises on her face. Her dark unkempt hair showed signs of recently being made up. A youthful Latino woman, dead and disregarded.

Since he discovered her, she remained unidentified with less than any clues about who murdered her. He knew someone strangled her to death and the toxicology report showed sizeable amounts of methamphetamines with a mix of LSD, but nothing else. No further clues, and no genuine interest in finding who killed her.

Now, two months later, he stood in the dark again. Less than twenty feet from that fateful night. A third dead girl left discarded in a heap of trash. This one, about the same age, nearly naked, and with fresh dark bruises on her face. The Caucasian woman died just like the others. Jimenez looked through a dark haze and observed the polished nails on her fingers. High gloss, but in a light shade of pink this time. Three dead girls, all discarded as nothing more than worthless pieces of trash.

He made the calls he had to make and now he stood again in a dreary place of Déjà vu.

The predawn light broke against the darkness when the coroner’s wagon pulled out. The last of the forensic team were packing up. Jimenez watched as detective Harry McCarthy finished putting down some final notes in a small pad. The beginnings of life stirred in the park as lights came on and the common noises of the area spread across the Zone.

They disregard everything else here, why not some dead girls? McCarthy said gesturing at the overflowing trash.

Jimenez acknowledged the statement with a slight nod. It’s a sad reality, but not far off the mark. Then he asked, What about the others, you come up with anything?

Not much. The first came up as a run away from Ohio. The one you found is still a Jane Doe, like she never existed. You know about the shit load of drugs in their systems.

I heard?

Ya, well, they both had multiple sexual partners within hours from being dumped here. Fare to conclude we’ll find the same with this one.

Prostitutes?

Could be, but so far not a hit to confirm. McCarthy said.

Jimenez knew the investigator from his time in the county as honest and hardworking, and serious about his job. He drank too much and could fly off as a loose canyon from time to time, but he knew his stuff. They pondered separately with an agreement of nonverbal acknowledgment.

This dump is the disposal site, McCarthy said. The answers are elsewhere. It’ll be worthless to canvass the neighborhood on this one. Your people are tighter lipped than any I’ve ever seen. A useless proposition.

I know. But there are reasons.

Ya and what’s that?

Not fear, it is something more intrinsic. The life they live here is immune to fright, they don’t even bend to worry. They’ve grown callus to the shock of danger, and it’s not a lack of trust in helping us solve these. None want this here. They all want this stopped.

McCarthy looked with questions he knew he would not get as Jimenez continued.

They want these murders solved. Anyone who knew something would come forward. Without hesitation they would speak up.

Then why don’t they? McCarthy asked.

Because they can’t see anything.

Can’t?

Nothing. Not because they don’t want to. They just can’t. I’ve tried to figure it, but it’s an elusive problem. It’s some habitual blindness. They’ve denied themselves the power of peripheral site. They can’t see what’s happening next to them. No matter how close they are. Odd, I know, but it’s true. It’s a problem they were born to. Marinated over generations, keeping them blind to what is right in front of them. Jimenez explained.

So, they hide in their shitty houses and their ignorance, as bodies pile up? McCarthy asked.

They know nothing different. They’re programmed to turn a blind eye. But they want it solved and have it stop.

As they sit silent? McCarthy inquired.

They don’t know any other way. But they lack the ability to open their eyes and shake off the blinders to see what they overlook.

And this is where you live? McCarthy asked.

I know.

By choice too, right?

Or as a mistake. Jimenez said with a grin.

Hard to figure you. McCarthy mumbled as he turned away.

As they stood together in the dump, an unspoken agreement to not spend time in futile efforts asking if anyone saw what they could not see passed between them. McCarthy wanted the Zone burned to the ground with the ashes dumped over the canyon of Sequoia. A forgotten memory of what never should have been. He admired Jimenez’s dedication to the place, but the least amount of time he spent here, all the better.

Jimenez worked nights for the last eleven years. He liked it that way. Those hours were the ones he had the most influence over and where he could have the most impact. The days were as dark as the night in relation to the bleakness of the place, but most crime peaked after ten PM.

He only worked for a paycheck five nights a week. Many of the others he walked off the clock in his civilian clothes.

During the day and swing shift, patrols took place from the comfort and safety of a sheriff’s cruiser. On rare occasions a deputy would step on the pavement and making their presence known. Only enough to keep anarchy from raising past a fevered pitch.

Most of the cops worked hard with dedication and honor. When a call came in, three cruisers would show up and prepared to handle whatever came their way. Jimenez trusted almost all of them. Even though he gave up the cruiser to walk a beat, he had no qualms with anyone who didn’t. Besides, his decision became the odd choice and most of his fellow officers respected him for it, all the while, and with endearing sarcasm, questioned his sanity.

Jimenez walked at least forty blocks a night. On bingo night or prayer meeting, he followed the church ladies as they made their way home so they would feel safe. He saw himself more as a deterrent than a peace keeper. Besides his duties he broke up skirmishes, delivered the occasional baby who could not wait, coached a peewee little league team, called the Zoner’s, and gave last rites to those who could not hold on for a priest. Plus, he over saw the neighborhood watch program, for all the good that did.

The prostitutes trusted him, drug addicts avoided him, and low-end thugs feared him.

As McCarthy finished, he turned and said, Whoever is doing this ain’t finished.

I know. Jimenez replied.

Chapter 2

The late morning brightened as the sun carved through the overcast sky. Seagulls singing endless tunes went unheard over the deafening sound of the engine and blasting air.

The late start in the day is not the reason they moved in a rush. Avoiding the encumbrances of traffic signals, circumventing the rules of the road, and getting out frustration made them move fast.

On these roads they needed to make their way, or more to the point, move people out of the way. Sometimes the thundering sound of the massive four stoke twelve hundred and fifty cubic centimeter engine, with busted tailpipe, would do the trick. Other times traffic would just move aside to glimpse the genuine Harley Davidson WL 1945 Goulding with attached sidecar, driving the Southern California streets.

Justin Fuller drove sunglasses on, in his standard T-shirt, denim cutoff jeans, and ripped and stained low top sneakers. He had the two wheels under him as he maneuvered the old vehicle on his way to the boardwalk at Sequoia State Beach. The pounding wind in his face and ears caused most of his sensory input to drown out, while he buzzed through traffic.

He looked over at the two passengers in the side car and yelled, Hold on.

He always drove. Had to be that way. Neither of the other two even considered it. Plus, they never mentioned a desire to take the wheel.

Justin dropped a gear, swerved the bike into oncoming traffic and gunned the engine to pass a shiny turquoise minivan, with the obligatory middle-class family on a sight-seeing tour, taking their pictures. He starred straight into the grill of a faded dark brown mid-nineties Ford delivery truck. He propelled the bike to about three quarters past the family vehicle and seconds from being plowed into by the delivery truck. Justin swerved back causing both the minivan and the truck to slam breaks just before he made, by inches, his way back into his lane.

The delivery driver honked and cursed with a fist in the air. The minivan family starred in disbelief, clicking pictures of the side car passengers, warring identical outfits, clueless of the perilous close call.

Justin screamed out as he passed the family. Gawk and take pictures after you park.

From inside the minivan, a pudgy, freckle faced, red headed teenager took the perfect picture. He showed it around before he went back to playing his over violent, first shooter video game on his expensive sleek smart phone.

The picture captured the near miss of mayhem, knurled metal and bone crushing carnage. It told the entire story of the encounter the out-of-town touring family would recall as the highlight of their time in southern California. It showed Justin driving, his head pressed forward, teeth gritted. In the side car, with a mischievous grin, sat Justin’s brother Bren who seemed oblivious to the life ending scene. Bren wore a pair of 1952 authentic aviator’s goggles, brown leather cap and a deep red scarf around his neck blowing in the wind. The red baron on the streets of California. On Bren’s lap sat a small scrappy dog named Tookie. Her mouth opened, tongue wagging, nose pointed high in the air. The dog wore a matching pair, although much smaller, goggles and aviator cap. A tiny red scarf around her neck whipped in perfect unison with Bren’s. Snoopy on a bike.

As Justin squeezed between the shocked, petrified faces of the touring family, and angry gesture from the van driver, he sped forward with a natural boldness, and maneuvered the contraption with ease. He rumbled the beast up, over, and took back his place of authority on the street, leaving horns blasting and shocked looks behind him.

Most of the time he kept all the wheels on the ground. Sometimes, either by intention, or just out of sheer necessity, the third wheel would lift. Just for a second or two, or without intension, Bren and Tookie would lift off the ground for what seemed like eternity and higher than a kite. Whenever the wheel raised, a chorus of Bren’s cheer would rise in tune with Tookie’s barks. The melodic harmony of their joy in unison became one place Justin allow himself to truly smile, even as he bellowed out his colorful insults and instructions as he raced on by.

Justin’s honed his verbal taunts and aggressive driving over years. He weaved with ease, in and out, through and past the hurried puzzle of regular and self-absorbed people. Those who caused and created the traffic jams because of what he considered their timid, stupid and cautious, slowing and stopping. Their lame philosophy, their self-focused and sheepish ways, caused them to look, slow and gawk caused the bumper to bumper. He knew the way to overcome this dilemma. Yelling at no one in particular.

Go faster. Push it. Don’t break. Your breaking kills the momentum. Idiots.

Justin always screamed at those who couldn’t hear him. It became the simple and comforting therapeutic mechanism he used most days to relive the stress he never showed. How could he, or why would he? An internal conflict he would and could never admit, so he hid it to everyone, including himself. So, he screamed out, as a ritual for his own personal and self-gratifying reward. He mastered the howl as a well-practiced routine. Years ago, it came to him as a revelation. Justin confirmed the power, practiced and perfected the method finding deep gratification in the exercise. It always, always made him feel better. He didn’t know why, as most people couldn’t hear him. But screaming to an empty void, yelling into a whirling hurricane, no roof over him, with the pounding wind blowing in his face made him happy. Really happy. It made him feel lighter, washed and relinquished from the burdens he carried. Justin could never explain it, but he didn’t care, because it worked, worked like a charm. Tookie sitting next to him didn’t mind and Bren wouldn’t say a word about it, so he buzzed by everyone screaming out and yelling. What could they do? He yelled out anything he wanted to. Get it out. Scream it out and keep moving. Let the breeze and momentum carry and protect him as his rebel yell comforted his troubled soul.

For his internal satisfaction he shouted his insults and preconceived corrections, and profanities, and also for his own selfish release of bend up frustration. Strategic in two ways.

First, as systematic proof of his own philosophy about how traffic should flow, convinced him of the value. He knew through massive experience, with no scientific study, how people should speed up and not slow down and all traffic would move not only smoother and faster but much safer. He could prove it. Justin knew he could clean up all the southern California traffic messes up in a single day if they just listen to him. So much so, an average fourth grader could understand it. But fourth graders don’t drive. He knew the basic law of aerodynamics solved the problem. Keep moving. Keep moving and don’t look around and for God’s sake don’t slow down, ever, to look at what’s on the side of the road. That is the death knell of traffic jams. You look and Bam! Everyone else slows, gets into the slower mode and Bam again, it backs up. Sometimes for miles. Bumper to bumper. Two miles an hour and everyone is in a trance, going even slower. Slow as turtles trudging in molasses. If they would just exercise his philosophy, things would always, yes always, keep moving and moving fast in the right directions and there would be fewer accidents. But Justin had sense enough to know, as he raced along toward the beach, it would never happen, so he lived ambiguously in the knowledge he had very little control over anything.

The other reason proved ambiguous, but more important. It went to the core of his internal nature. He needed an outflow. He needed a release, so he didn’t explode near or at Bren. That never worked and the reason they forced him into counseling years ago. All four quacks, the court required him to meet, told him he needed to get his feelings out, whatever that meant. It became an ultimatum so he and his brother could stay together. How lame is that? Yelling at tourist and stupid drivers provided so much more and better relief and proved very profitable. He should have just told those shrinks, get me out on the streets, set me in third gear going against the grain and yell my head off and I will be mentally secure in moments. No need to worry about me or my brother again. But he knew that would never happen. They wouldn’t understand. They never did. How could they? They had their books, their diagnosis and state required preferences. Screaming in traffic or just bellowing out belligerent uncontrolled curses is the best therapy to get his feelings out, but they could never admit it.

As the wind bellowed through his ears, he made a quick turn onto Figueroa and zipped down toward Prospect Park. A flood of memories, most filled with pain and regret, washed through him. They always did when he made this turn. The thundering noise of the engine under him seemed to go silent and left him empty of any utterance, more than any Fifteenth-century monk on his first day of a lifelong vow of silence.

Justin knew this abnormal hush would only last until he made it to Canal and Tenth. Then he’d be singing out choruses of blasphemies and insults again. So, he glanced over to the asphalt, in the south end of the basketball court where it happened and let the memory blow through his mind and enter his soul and expel out of him like the breeze of wind blowing by his face.

It happened back when he and Bren were twelve years old. He tried to teach his brother to dribble a basketball while his father made his deals in the park. Justin dribbled toward the basket, his back to Bren, explaining each part, except the shot, when the circle showed up. Kenny Carrigan, Drake Anderson, and some other taggers on, encircled Bren, mocking and pocking. At fifteen, Kenny stood three inches taller, twenty pounds heavier and filled with bitter anger Justin did not have in him, but that did not cause the issue. How Bren responded, the noise he made rising to a fevered pitch shifted gears and needed a response. Justin learned long ago to make this noise settle down and disappear like a well-practiced illusionist. Magic stood beyond his grasp that day. The sound Bren made during the fight still haunts Justin’s memories to this day. Although Bren stood off and never received a punch, the noise of the guttural terror and heart retching torments seared like a branding iron into Justin’s memory.

If a legion of demons caught Justin in the darkest of alleys, each digging into his flesh with their talons, making eerie mocking screeches, would have felt like a friendly tickle compared to the sound screeching from his brother.

Justin warned Kenny before he made his move. He told all of them first.

Keep your hands off him. Let him go, stop it.

They didn’t listen. Justin dropped the ball and flew in rage onto Kenny. He grabbed him by the back of his long greasy hair and snapped his head with a jerk. He flung him to the ground and started landing solid punches to his head, face and ear. Justin screamed. You piece of shit. I told you to leave him alone. What’s wrong with you?

The onslaught caused a cut over Kenny’s right eye. Blood started pouring from his nose. It didn’t stop Justin. He kept pounding Kenny for mocking and taunting his brother. He punched Kenny for all those times he felt small. For all the times cruel and weak people mocked his brother, he punched and pounced, for all the beatings they received from their father, Justin unleashed on Kenny. Someone in the park yell out. Fight.

He sensed a crowd gathering around when Drake pulled him off and held him while Kenny stood on unsteady legs. Justin looked through the crowd to see Bren standing, eyes looking down and away in his standard pose.

When Kenny caught his balance, Justin looked over and saw his father walking up to the crowd. He looked into Justin’s eyes and pulled a long hit off the bottle hidden in a brown paper bag. Kenny snarled at Justin and yelled.

YOU’RE DEAD! DEAD. You Fucking little dweeb.

I told you to leave him alone. Justin screamed back.

Kenny stepped forward. He threw a left punch at Justin’s head. Justin stepped aside and dogged it. The punch went air born, and the crowd snickered at Kenny, causing him to fume. He tried another one which Justin avoided and then like a cat he turned to the left and brought up a glancing blow against Kenny’s chin and another one squarely connected with Kenny’s swollen right eye. Kenny snarled with embarrassment, shame and pain. Justin moved about when Drake stuck a foot out and tripped him. Kenny saw the opening, as Justin hit the ground, and dropped on top of him. The heavier boy straddle Justin and grabbed Justin’s hair and head and started slamming it full force into the cement of the basketball court with sickening thuds. Kenny slammed Justin’s head again and again, as Bren howled out a shocking and haunting moan, so load and awful it made Kenny stop and take notice. Kenny smiled at Bren’s cry and bent his head and whispered into Justin’s ear.

Looks like he’s getting the worst of it.

He slammed Justin’s face into the cement again. The smashing of bone and cartilage cracked a sickening echo across the park, but the sound of Bren’s horrifying scream sounded worse.

The crowd which moments earlier seemed so excited to see a fight, now stood in an unnerving stillness. What they were witnessing and hearing felt chilling and disgusting. A large hand grabbed Kenny by the shirt and flung him off Justin. Officer Ronnie Jimenez held Kenny by the scruff of the neck while the crowd dispersed as Bren’s horrendous cry settled down to an inaudible whimper. As soon as Drake and the other cronies saw the cop tower over Kenny, they moved away in different directions. Most of the rest of the crowd had dispersed without persuasion.

Justin got to his feet. He stumbled but made it all the way up. His bloody and mangled face poured blood all over his white shirt. He cupped his hand under his nose, trying to catch the flow to no avail. He bent and spit out a mouth full of blood. The pounding swelled his left eye shut. The right, not much better. He looked over and saw, through his blurry vision, Bren standing looking up at nothing. His hand waiving around than Justin saw the faded figure of his father, standing unmoving with a lifeless expression. His father watched the beating and stood unmoving. Without concern or care. Justin questioned what his father might be thinking. Sad? Proud or happy to see both his son’s suffering. Those were the conundrums he would never get answered. Not now. But the horrible day happened over a decade ago, and the old man died five years later with no answer.

Justin’s life did not belong to him. He often fantasized about what it would be like not to carry the burden, how other people lived, going after the dreams they envisioned, but not for him. He could not even consider those luxuries or indulgences.

Many believed Justin too young and incapable. They used the words incapable and inexperienced. He always wondered how anyone could be more experienced. What does that mean anyhow? And who is, anyway? Someone with an education. Would there be, or could there be, such a thing. What training school hands out diplomas to those responsible for the life of someone else? Someone incapable of taking care of themselves.

Justin felt older than his twenty-two years. Wise enough to not philosophize, or complain over the areas he had no control over. The ones he could never change. He couldn’t stack the deck in his favor. No magic card in his hand to deal or play. The deck didn’t exist. So, he gave in many years ago and accepted his fate and did his best.

If he could ask GOD, or if he would get the answer, Justin would find out why. Although he never thought he would get the straight scoop. He rolled with the punches and fell in line with his calling.

So, he went back to what he knew best. He gunned the engine and made a quick right onto Figueroa and pulled a hard left onto Canal Street. In the middle of the turn, he hit the throttle hard, raising the side car off the ground. Almost as if in slow motion, and for endless amounts of time, the car hung floating in midair. Bren let out an excited cheer, and so did Tookie, with her rhythmic bark, but Justin did not smile this time. He needed to get the most out of this personal therapy session. He let out, at the top of his lungs, and from the deepest recesses of his guts the most pure, raw, and native scream he had in a long time.

As all three wheels share the pavement again, Bren cheered, and Justin said.

You got that right, buddy. Then Tookie let out two quick yelps. You too girl, Justin said, with a rare but genuine smile.

They were coming up to the toughest part of their journey. Justin slowed, stood on the pegs, and coasted to Canal Street Bridge and said, Comin up to the maze.

Bren grabbed the sidecar with one hand, while placing the other around Tookie. Like a family buckling down the hatches for a category five Hurricane, Tookie lowered her head and moved closer as Bren squeezed tighter. This part of their journey required bold, spontaneous decision making, set in the backdrop of three basic rules for running The Maze.

Justin kept the clutch in, stood high, unmoving on the pegs, and rolled over the Canal bridge onto Tenth Street. He drew upon his instinct and perceived the options.

Right away he saw the problem.

Chapter 3

As Justin rolled over Canal Bridge onto Tenth Street, he kept his mind on his three rules. Never stop. If you have to slow, use the clutch and downshift, do not break, and make it to Ocean Avenue and Third Street without going South.

The maze, as Justin called it, is where the tourist clogged the roads. It marks the measurement of the old city of Sequoia built and incorporated in 1907 to be an all-inclusive area. Ten streets, going east to west, and eight avenues north to south. On the east end the Sequoia Canal snakes its way around the city to Sequoia Canyon. The Capital river pushes its clear mountain water against the tides of the Pacific Ocean, creating the Canal. The river loses its battle and gets swallowed up in its never-ending assault, causing a swirling back draft and undertow of sand-filled salty water mixing up the Canal. From there it backs up and pours itself to the north side of St. Francis Avenue around the city to win its own victory by plunging over the canyon and out to sea.

There are two ways into the city and the same two out. Canal Street turns into Tenth street at the Canal street bridge and Canyon street turns into First street at the Canyon street bridge. That’s it, in and out. Some people call Sequoia the Trapped City based on the water surrounding all parts on all sides.

The Pacific Ocean is at the very end. The crystal-white sandy beach pushes about one hundred yards from the surf to the boardwalk, or The Walk, as everyone calls it. All stores, restaurants, cafes and gift shops have their doors open to the walk, with their actual address on Ocean Avenue. Every store built included an attached two-bedroom single story bungalow. Most merchants on the walk have converted the bungalows into expanded areas for their businesses, but some older, and more nostalgic business owners still live and operate their businesses, as days gone by.

Ocean runs north and south and starts from the canyon and First Street and ends at Tenth and the Canal. St. Francis Avenue mirrors Ocean on the other end of the city. Close to a perfect square.

Justin could have continued down to Ocean and turned left to third and that’s it. He’d be there in several minutes. Not this time. Not a chance. He would lose the internal competition he created and go against two of his rules. He would have to use his breaks, and even more taboo, stop more than once. Unacceptable. So, Justin down shifted, with his clutch still engaged, he gunned the engine, it worked, the small Red Toyota Prius Hybrid moved to the right on Tenth. He dropped the clutch and made a hard left onto St. Francis and shouted A hybrid isn’t even a car.

No one seemed to hear him.

He spotted a middle-class family of about a dozen, from kids to Grey hairs, without out any urgency, starting to walk across St. Francis on Sixth. None of them had any thought for others who might be interested in using the road. They were taking up the whole thoroughfare, as if they would set up a picnic, with potato salad, pork and beans and take the time to cut up a watermelon right in the middle of the street. So, Justin hung a right on seventh, yelling after himself.

Get out of the road. Wait at the cross walk.

As he moved toward Ocean, he noticed the worst. Red tail lights. He needed to decide and fast. Justin took a sharp left onto Shasta, lifting Bren and Tookie high in the air. Just as they floated back to earth, he pulled a hard right onto Sixth cutting off a newer Dodge Challenger and causing two locals on skateboarders to wipe out into a hedge bush. The older, heavy-set man in the challenger skid to a stop. A shocked look on his face. The skate boarders just flipped Justin off. Unmoved, he kept pressing forward.

He flew past Capital with no problem. They were half way through Panama Avenue, when he saw the mother of all problems ahead. Two cars stopped. They were talking together on opposite sides of the street through their windows. Justin hated that. Just hated it. Not the talking, the blocking of the road. The entire street. Did they have no decency or any understanding or concern for the rest of society? He murmured out loud in the form of several curses.

Blowing it. I should have known better. Adjusted for the lame and ignorant. He told himself.

With the stealth of a panther and the agility of an alpine skier, Justin made an abrupt left and cut through the last driveway on Panama Avenue. They bounced over a curb, and all three wheels came off the ground. With the help of gravity and the power of the massive engine, they landed for an instance before going air born again. They crashed through a manicured, seventy-year-old, wax leaf hedge. Like a barber tasked with starting a crew cut for hippies drafted to the Vietnam war, they cut the hedge clean through. An ear clanging boom pronounced their entry as they bounced to the other side. Brush and leaves, parts of irrigation and an old Frisbee, lodged there for years, went flying. They burst onto Fifth at Colfax still bouncing and fishtailing, as the debris sailing behind them floated to the ground. This was not the little engine that thought he could. It was something out of you held me back and now, and I’ll break bad.

Justin would never admit it, or ever make the humiliating confession, but if he could, he would have said. OH my GOD, we made it. I can’t believe we made it.

He embraced the all too familiar risks in his daily course as raced his vehicle toward his destination.

As he moved down Fifth Street, he looked back for a moment and saw the owner of the yard he demolished, come out his front door with a look of horror on his face, mumbling something. If Justin read lips, he could have spent time to decipher the meaning, but he didn’t have the time. He was not too far from Ocean, and he had to get over two blocks. He had a decision here. One of two paths. Justin spent significant time buzzing around traffic in this City, and today was no different. Perceiving and avoiding the stop and go traffic with the confidence of a blind man walking through a house he measured by every detailed step. He could have done it in his sleep. Justin navigated with experience and instinct on these roads most days. He could have closed his eyes and coasted. Could swish through; make easy turns, no need for breaks, right through the maze all the way to the beach, never opening his eyes. But there were obstacles here. Moving, irritating and challenging hurdles to avoid. People! People were the problem. People in vehicles, people on bikes and worst of all, people walking. So, with his eyes wide, he moved through Colfax onto Fifth. He swung a tight left onto Dunnock, causing a faded yellow 1967 VW beetle to slam breaks and skid as he whizzed by within six inches of the left front fender of the Bug. Justin didn’t need to read lips to interpret the cursing from this driver.

He relaxed a bit, settled for a moment with a bold and easy confidence. The late morning contained a bright cloudless blue sky, with a soft wind from the ocean. A normal part of this part of Southern California when you near the beach. He coasted down Dunnock through Fourth Avenue. As he turned right onto Third, he came close to swiping a municipal bus, when one of his problems turned out to be a gift to him on this day. A group of tourists were walking across Ocean and in the cross walk. He stood high to get his barring and rolled across Ocean up the sidewalk, leaned left, and rolled into the tile covered second-third causeway. The power of the engine echoed like thunder in the cement. He killed the engine and parked the vehicle under the sign for SIP and SURF Cafe.

Justin got off the bike in the empty causeway. He took his sunglasses off as Tookie jumped out. She scurried to the edge of the causeway where the cement floor connects to the old faded and worn wood planks of the boardwalk. The expansive vista of the ocean spread with endless majesty. The standard assortments of people walking both ways on the boardwalk took no notice of the dog with goggles.

Bren got out of the side car and stood unmoving by the faded green tile wall starring at nothing in particular. Unmoving, except for his left wrist and hand, which jerked and fluttered around.

Justin growled at him. Take it off.

Bren did not respond. Justin said even louder.

Take it all off now, I’m not saying it again.

Bren removed the goggles and aviator hat.

The scarf too. Justin said, as he pulled out a key, and moved to the wooden door on the inside of the causeway near Ocean Street. He worked the lock. Bren placed the items in the side car and stood unmoving. Then his head picked up a rhythmic motion as he glued his eyes to his feet.

Keep em there all day, I don’t want to see them on you.

Bren made no response as he flicked the fingers on both hands.

He turned toward Justin without holding eyes contact. Without the outfit on, Brenden Fuller was Justin’s identical twin brother. A mirror image. An exact copy. The same in appearance, but as different as a hawk is from a mouse.

Justin unlocked and opened the door to the storage unit built into the side of the causeway. He pulled out an ancient wooden four-wheeled cart. The unit went untouched for years, but now Justin used it to carry all the items to his space on the boardwalk.

The custom-built cart came into his procession years ago. Justin could not calculate the date of origin, but he believed at least a hundred years. It held everything he needed with room to spare. Justin referred to it as his store.

Justin pulled the cart near Bren and the old Harley. Tookie made her way back to the vehicle, spinning around with an excited bounce, her goggles, hat in perfect position. Bren stood in a stoic stance, glaring at nothing on the smooth wall. His fingers in a constant flicking motion while his head jerked. He would never hold eye contact and more often than not, Bren would turn his back to most people who talked to him.

Justin heard it all. Doctors thought it might be brain damage.