Tujunga

By Carlos Alvarado

Tujunga is a chilling murder mystery that raises the possibility of a government cover up to protect the integrity of the United States space exploration program. At the center of this scientific thriller are two very different love stories that play in heartbreaking detail as the full scope of a young scientist's mysterious death is reveale

• Language: English
• Publisher: Determined2 Publishing
• Release date: Apr 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999567111

Carlos Alvarado

Nothing reveals more about me than my writing. I often compose a story-line bearing drama drawn from my Costa Rican Catholic upbringing, while many of the characters evolve throughout the story as if influenced by a disposition akin to that of my mother: divorced and unapologetic, she threshed through the challenges of being a single woman in a foreign land and raised five successful children in Los Angeles, California.I remember the day I announced my intention to pursue a career in medicine. With a voice of disappointment, my mother expressed her expectation I would have followed my lifetime dream of becoming an architect. I realized then it was passion that gave her fortitude against life’s challenges, as much as the spunk to shout catcalls at the romantic disgraces depicted on her favorite Mexican novellas.As an introvert, I placed myself in my mother’s shadow and made writing my venue for introspection. For 32-years in a medical career, I flowered my patient's history and physical exam with words of passion; this served me well to limit my emotional vulnerability to the daily human suffering I witnessed in the Emergency Room: the blood splotched on my glove in resuscitation required my disciplined response to curb its flow.I wrote Cry Watercolors early in my medical career, and Tujunga waited until I was retired to be completed. For both of these novels, my medical knowledge formed the foundation on which to build their plots. Recently (2019), I took a look back at my first book and thought it was time for a new edition: Cry WaterColors, D2 EditionThere is a richness in every encounter we care to remember, that some people chronicle by framing in photographs hung on walls. Others prefer to store their experiences in albums or diaries; but my own cherished memories are keepsakes I lavish onto backdrops for my stories.The Future:Presently living in south Florida, I have recently launched my third novel Never To Forget: The Promise of Love, a Costa Rican romantic tale. Presently, I am plotting out my fourth book Mount Ararat, a revisionist accounting of the Old Testament. I continue to write poems with the hope of eventually sharing them.About 10 years ago I developed Determined2® a “NETWORTHING” Platform which uses social media to create a community that promotes Social Capitalism: each member’s success enhances the community. With a unique sweepstakes profit-sharing option, Determined2® offers an opportunity for financial rewards unattainable outside the community.

Book preview

P

ROLOGUE

WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA (1971)

There was a carpet of fireflies on the commons in Colonial Williamsburg, and ancient oak trees lined the walkway on which Curt and Claudia strolled. In the dim evening light she appeared animated, just as he remembered her to have been the night they had first made love.

It’s so romantic, she said to the swirl of lights that scattered from her step. I’m so glad we decided to come.

Since the night Curt McKillon had led their high school football team to the West Virginia regional championship, Claudia had incited the sexual passions they shared. Their return to Williamsburg was to rouse a romance she felt had begun to languish. Given their twelve childless years, it had become more than her insistence, but an urgency.

What’s it been now? Curt asked. Seventeen years since you nabbed me under the bleachers?

I don’t remember you objecting. She turned to him and waited the few steps he lagged behind. Embracing him at the waist, she added, And you were much easier to excite then. With the pressure of her body against his, Curt felt himself become aroused. He was glad their passion had not wilted like the fallen leaves on which the fireflies lived. But not so much the truth, he thought, which had withered by the demand of military secrets.

Separation

In the dim lantern light along Duke of Gloucester Street in Williamsburg, Curt and Claudia returned to the Colonial Bed & Breakfast Inn where they had once celebrated an anniversary. Distracted by needing to pay close attention to the bulging roots of tall oaks that undermined the brick walkway, Curt felt his arousal soften.

Once inside their room he started pulling off his leather oxfords. Good thing you didn’t wear your high heels, he said. Tsk. I think I have a blister on my heel.

You should’ve worn your sneakers. Claudia took off her white flat canvas shoes.

You got me red ones. They would have locked my head in that pillory we saw in the commons to publicly humiliate me. Combing his fingers through his auburn strands of hair, he jerked his head about as if to escape the imagined trap.

Come on, honey, she teased, sitting next to him on the cushioned bench at the foot of the bed. How could a muscular Navy pilot be afraid of what people think of his shoes?

Curt stared at her hazel eyes as she squinted in a concentrated examination of the blister on his heel.

Early in their relationship, concern for what others thought of her was a way of life, but with time and tribulation she had become her own woman.

Curt thought back to the awkwardness of their first encounter and smiled in the knowledge that she had become the rudder in their marriage.

Seventeen years was not a long time, but the emotional journey on which they had travelled seemed a century long.

It was on the night he celebrated his high school football championship win that he recorded his greatest triumph. It was not so much quarterbacking the team to victory, but his unexpected sexual encounter with Claudia after the game.

C

HAPTER

1

ON FORTITUDE

The victory against Rupert High School had been one-sided (39-13), but the ranting of his teammates after the game suggested an appetite for further devastation. On the blast of the sideline cannon, the confrontation mercifully ended. Curt raised his helmet into the cold night air and his teammates rushed to encircle him. Lifted onto the shoulders of the powerful front four players of the squadron, he brandished the helmet above his dominion.

Like a throng of primal warriors, they paraded their leader to the sidelines, where he was then lowered into waves of green and white pom-poms. Of the cheer-leaders, Claudia was the first to rush him, but the only one to force her tongue between his surprised lips.

Curt knew locker room talk to be mischievous gossip and recognized Claudia as its frequent subject. From the perimeter of post-game sock hops, he eventually identified her as the most attractive in the band of girls who appeared, lining up in reception of the arriving lettermen. Giggles from the reception line, followed by pointed fingers, distanced the cheerleading squad from the more bookish boys who swayed stiffly to the music at the perimeter of the dance floor.

Fingers were never pointed at a two-sport letter- man, but Curt’s bookish habits kept him clear of the unpleasant giggles. He, though, was often intrigued by the best locker room tales told by those lettermen that had strolled out of the sock hop with Claudia.

That night, from the adoring salutations reverberating from the crowd of fans that lined the team’s pathway to the locker room, Curt heard a seductive voice shout out, Great game!

He turned in the direction of the voice and noticed Claudia standing at the edge of the crowd. From just outside a rusted service door to the building the team was entering, she motioned for him to come in her direction; but soon engulfed by the flow of football armor, Curt was carried into the building.

Inside the locker room, each player raised up an index finger, as if to point at one spot on the ceiling. They continued their incessant chant, We’re Number One! We’re Number One!

Curt was focused on the rusted door at the back wall when the chant quickly changed. Hoo-rah! everyone roared. Testosterone fueled the team’s battle cry.

The coach pulled a bench to the center of the assembly area; the front four then lifted him onto it for a temporary podium. With their arms raised, they quieted the room.

Today you have earned the privilege to be called men! Coach Green bestowed that honor with an impassioned stare on each of his players. When their yelps subsided, he continued. I could not be prouder than if you were my own sons. He let a brief moment of silence convey the emotion a proud father would share with a son.

Only three years ago, each one of you came to me in search of the path to being a man. You felt hurt when we made fun of your change in voice or joked about the baby fat jiggling around your waist. I heard you cry when we called you a pansy for not being able to take one more lap – or noted your sister had more hair on her chest than you could ever think of growing.

Accompanied by laughter, many accusing fingers were then pointed.

But because you were determined to become a man, either like your father is — or wished he was — you survived all the humiliation I heaped on you and endured the physical pain I challenged you with, to then return each day expecting to overcome another adversity.

Coach Green slowly turned around the axis of his podium to look directly into the eyes of his audience. With a sardonic twist to his voice, he added, You are not men today because of what I said or did. In a softer tone, he then continued, You became men because of your fellowship to this team.

He took the gold trophy handed to him by an assistant coach. Cheers erupted when he raised it above his head. As a team, you all became committed to winning this championship!

The team responded with a relentless clamor that shook the building. Some of the players were bare-chested as they traded fisted punches and open hand slaps while shouting, We’re Number One! We’re Number One!

Winning is making a commitment . . . and then going all out to achieve it!

Curt gripped the handle to the rusted door and noticed it turned easily. Over the rumble of his team-mates, he listened to the coach’s last words.

Being a man means recognizing there will always be adversity . . . and then doing all that is in your power to overcome it!

You were a cannon tonight! He felt Brandon’s warm voice close to his ear and a tight embrace from behind. What a game, heh?

"It was only ’cause you, The Rhino, were there to catch my balls, Curt said to his running back and turned to push off from the embrace. Sweat dripping from Brandon’s bare chest moistened Curt’s hand. Come on, man, go take a shower," Curt said.

What’s wrong, buddy? Got you all sweaty and bothered? Brandon smirked at him and walked on toward the showers while slapping the butts of team- mates he passed. At his locker, he let the towel wrapped around his waist fall to the floor, then called out to Curt, Coming to the party later on?

Curt quickly turned to the rusted door and shouted back to Brandon, Just taking a breather now, but see you there.

He shut the door behind him. Claudia! he softly called. He was relieved to be wearing the crotch protector, as he looked down to check his growing erection was well confined within the cup.

She did not respond, but a strip of light from the hopper window above the door he had exited shone directly down the walkway to where she sat, on the lowest bench of the home bleachers. That was some game you played, she said, without looking back to where he stood.

You knew I would come? He straddled the bench and sat a few feet from her.

I know men, she replied. By the way, watch out for the splintered wood.

Curt discreetly secured the cup in position with one hand and felt the wooden bench for a safe point to sit. Sorry I took so long to find my way out.

The longer you stayed in that ritual, the easier it would make it for me out here.

What do you mean?

Someone told me you were still a virgin. She turned to him and stared at his face. Male bonding can at times be so erotic to the warrior that a woman just needs to wait for the low-lying fruit.

He gulped. I . . . think I lost you.

Are you hard inside that cup you’re wearing? she asked, staring at his crotch.

You’re shameless! He blushed and swung one leg around from straddling the bench and . . . felt the splinter she had warned him about.

I’m sure that’s what some of your teammates say about me. She walked around to under the bleacher and peered at Curt from behind two elevated benches. And I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about social etiquette.

Except for the strip of light that had led him to Claudia, everything else was dark. Cars honking in celebration at the front of the stadium sounded distant. Congratulatory cheers and bravado war cries no longer formed syntax, but a fading grumble. He wanted to silence the gritting sound his cleats made on the concrete walk as he followed her to behind the bleachers.

Whoa! she cautioned. You better get those pads off before you think of tackling me.

Slits of light shadowed the winter grass where Claudia now sat. She lifted off the knitted sweater over her head and brushed back the honey-colored hair that fell over her face. With his jersey stripped off, he struggled to untie the laced shoulder pads.

You must be cold, he said. Her stitched bra was not like the solid cups his mother wore. He was focused on the dark outline of her nipples.

That’s why you better hurry and keep me warm. She knelt up to loosen the tie of his football pants. He scrunched back, fearing his erection would pop out like a jack-in-the-box when the jockstrap was further loosened.

What’s wrong? she asked, too late. The cup had slipped with the fallen pants and his fully erect penis landed onto her open palm. Oh my!

Oh shit! he said in embarrassment. With the warm grasp of her hand holding the shaft of his penis, Curt felt his body begin to shake. As much as he wanted, he could not hold back the ejaculation. Ohhhh, go-o-d! he shouted and turned away from Claudia’s grip.

Don’t worry, she said to pacify his humiliation. A virgin can reload quickly.

He gathered his jersey and rubbed her hand in a feeble effort to erase the track his semen had made when he had turned away. "I am sooo sorry."

Don’t worry. I think you got most of it on the grass. She held back a laugh.

He bent to collect his fallen pants and picked up the discarded pads. I . . . better get going.

Why?

He inhaled a lungful of air and hoped that with it would come the courage to turn back to her. She still knelt under the bleacher but had sat back on her heels. A ribbon of light crossed her upper body and shadowed the deep cleavage of her breasts. He noticed that only a rubber bow supported her bra, as there were no shoulder straps. In the darkness, he could only see the outline of her face but felt her looking at him with a glint in her eyes.

Sit down by me, she said in a soft voice and splayed out her wool skirt as she would a picnic blanket.

With one arm he secured the shoulder pads to his chest and with the free hand gripped the pants to keep them from falling further. He sat at the hem of the skirt and stretched out his legs.

Nimbly, she unzipped the skirt and stepped out from it, leaving it fully spread. I suppose I’ve got my work cut out for me, she chuckled.

Dressed only in a circle stitch nylon bra and cotton petticoat, she sat, straddling his thighs. He did not mean to resist when she tugged the pads away from his chest, nor to drop his mouth open when she released the hook to her bra. But he turned his head to the motion of her tongue in his ear, so as to encourage her to a deeper prod. Her fingers combed through his sweaty hair and eagerly grasped at tufts of it as if in reply to the vigor with which he licked her nipples. Fully aroused, he felt the light touch of her hand guide him into the moist warmth inside her. Slowly the sway of their bodies upon each other intensified into thrusts of lust. She buried her scream onto the curve of his neck and he, with a hand, covered his own lips against a protracted groan.

In a silent embrace, their bodies became calm. With her face on his chest, Claudia drifted into sleep. Her warm breath moistened his nipple, but Curt remained motionless, not wanting to waken her. He searched for words to describe the feelings still coursing through his flesh, but only those of the coach formed an adequate metaphor.

Being a man means recognizing there will always be adversity . . . and then doing all that is in your power to overcome it!

Yes, coach, he softly responded with a hint of a smile, I have become a man.

Los Angeles (2005)

IN SEARCH OF TRUTH

C

HAPTER

2

TO RECLAIM A PLEASURE

It was a creek at any other time of the year, but the winter rains made the water surge into a raging river. Waves swelled into whitecaps as the water coursed along the Big Tujunga Canyon. Atop a rocky outcropping that overlooked the dam, Robert watched the torrent cascade over the concrete wall and rush toward the basin of the San Fernando Valley, ten miles away.

He shifted his stance, causing some pebbles to drop from the edge where he stood into the canyon below. The stones’ cumulative impact on the craggy ledges of the steep granite wall echoed through the canyon.

Robert turned away, not wanting to hear the sound of metal when the stones struck the crumpled car in which Xochi (Soh-chee) had lost her life. Two weeks previously, she had driven off the mountain road and into the canyon, crashing onto the riverbank 250 feet below. He had never thought to give a value to happiness, but it was because of that accident he had relinquished all the love and pleasures he had known.

Separation

When they had moved into her uncle’s house at the mouth of the canyon, Robert had asked her to always call when she was en route home from work. That day, two weeks ago, a call came late in the evening, long after her usual time of arrival. He did not recognize the tentative voice, but it instructed him to go to the local Emergency Room. He had no need to ask anything further and took the curves of the road at rubber-screeching speed.

The waiting room was empty, but the nurse’s tender touch on his elbow led him to a distant room. It was the doctor’s somber stare and his hands pocketed in the white coat that screamed out Xochi was dead. You can’t go in there, said the strong grip of the security guard when Robert ran for the entrance to the Emergency Room.

Why not? he pleaded, tears misting his eyes.

She’s . . . she is beyond recognition, the nurse said as she reached to touch him.

Robert threw himself at the door.

She’s no longer here, said the nurse. Her body was taken to the morgue.

No longer here? he repeated to himself, crouched against the wall in a corner of the waiting room. She never was here, he muttered and cupped his hands over his eyes to cover a flood of tears.

He drove back to where she had always been and walked past the front door he had left ajar. He stopped himself from calling out her name, noting there was no light creeping through the gap of their bedroom door.

Lying on their bed, he gathered the pillow into his embrace. He curled up with her pillow, inhaling the scent of the shampoo with which she had washed her hair the night before. Later he would notify her family.

Separation

The police had come to check on him the following morning, either as protocol for an investigation, or because the nurse with the tender touch had worried about him.

But a week later, Manny Bonitas, a Los Angeles Police Department investigator from the Foothills Division, was an intrusion. Dealing with all the miserable duties of arranging a funeral, Robert could not long stand to listen. Man, you’ve got to give me some time, he said into the phone.

Hey, bro, Manny replied, it’s been seven days. I have to get the info to the medical examiner. He’s looking to finish up the report tomorrow.

Fuck the report! His hand trembled in the tight grip with which he held the phone; he sobbed but did not hang up on the call. I’m looking to bury my fiancée, whom I won’t even be able to look at in an open casket because they couldn’t put her face back together.

At the coroner’s, it was the sparkle of her engagement ring that had given him the courage to touch her hand one last time; it was all of Xochi that showed from under the cadaver bag.

Not long after the police had made their first cursory visit, Xochi’s family arrived. Robert ensured that they were informed as much as involved. The medical examiner had required a funeral home to transfer her body, and the receiving mortician was unable to cosmetically arrange her corpse to view in an open casket. It was over the funeral arrangements the family argued, but they settled on Robert’s wish for a secular ceremony in celebration of their love for Xochi.

The last tear he had shed was on her pillow the morning after the accident, when he swore to never return to their bed.

But now, over the phone, Manny was asking him to relive the night before the accident, the night he wished to forever take back. I’m sorry, man, Manny said.

Robert tried to respond, to lie that everything was OK, but his chest shook every time he tried to utter a word. I loved her . . . so much, he forced out, trying to regain control.

I know you did, man. There was a pause before Manny added, Let me call you tomorrow.

No, man, I’ve got to do it now, he answered.

Separation

Xochi’s work did not often interfere in the time they spent together. From when they first began to date regularly, work issues were left at the time clock. But during the week before her accident, she had appeared distant. Her phone calls from her laboratory sounded muffled, as if her hand covered the mouthpiece. At home, whenever Robert would ask if there was something stressing her at work, Xochi would quickly turn the conversation to their favorite pastime: reading poetry and working out its allegories.

Yet thought it decent something should be said, she read from John Dryden’s The Hind and the Panther, For secret guilt by silence is betrayed. Xochi, I’m not in the mood, Robert said and walked out into the backyard. He stripped naked and continued into the spa. I just want a quiet night with you. I wish you would tell me what’s bothering you.

I’m sorry, Xochi replied then tied back her black hair into a bun and followed him into the spa. As she stepped into the foaming water, her new two-piece bathing suit appeared to glitter. Don’t worry, Robert. It’s just some work problems. I’ll manage them soon, she said but remained standing. The angle of her gaze seemed directed past beyond where he sat. I know we agreed not to bring work home, she continued, but it has never interfered with our relationship. It’ll be all right, and it’ll never come between us.

I’m sure I can help, he reassured her, before lowering himself beneath the surface of the gurgling water and embracing her firmly.

Slowly he stood, pressing his body against hers. There was a slight turn of her face when his lips touched hers. But it was the stare over his shoulder toward the inside of their home that made his body drop into the water. Do you want me to leave you alone?

I’m sorry, Robert. There are just lots of things I have to settle.

The cordless phone on the patio table rang.

I’ll get it. She ran to answer it on the second ring. Yes? she said into the phone and turned away from Robert’s glance.

It seemed to him that her hand covered the mouthpiece when she walked back inside. He leaned backward onto the water and dipped his head below the surface. Even through the swirl of water, he noticed the light of their bedroom flash on in the second-floor window.

A trail of water followed him as he returned to the family room and then to the kitchen counter.

Steve, he heard her say on the extension phone line, we just can’t meet tonight. I’ll be at the lab in the morning.

Infidelity was shallow, Xochi had argued when they had talked about his college relationship with Cheryl, whose betrayal had awakened the anger that Robert had violently unleashed upon her lover.

Still in the darkened family room, he sat on the arm of an easy chair and watched for their bedroom light to shine onto the foyer floor below. A scurry of footsteps preceded the light and seemed to carry her down the stairs, then past him through the French doors into the backyard. Even without moonlight, her wet swimsuit seemed to shimmer.

Robert? she called out toward the spa.

The muscles of his jaw felt tight when he answered, I’m in here.

She leaned against the inside frame of the door. Why are you sitting in the dark?

For secret guilt by silence is betrayed, he wanted to say. Who was on the phone?

It was from work. Just . . . last-minute details about the meeting planned in the morning.

Was it Graham?

No, she replied and sat on the