CLAN Page 2

  Whitley determines to take someone with him. He summons up his remaining strength and draws his own knife. He kicks and slashes at any form within reach. A wound to his scalp begins to bleed into his vision, blinding him. Whitley fights on, until his arms turn leaden and his lungs are on fire. Finally he falls forward and to one side and succumbs.

  "To hell with you!" he manages. "May God let me rot in your guts." He is too exhausted, can no longer fight.

  Something bats at Whitley like a cat morbidly curious about its prey. Then bites down. Whitley watches a long, thin gout of his own blood fly skyward, into the heavy smoke. He rolls his weary head to one side, tries to speak but only whispers.

  "Don't hurt my mules." Whitley's sight dims as he groggily watches them feed. They are creatures from Hades. One of the creatures begins to rip into the smallest corpse, the child, while others impatiently wait their turn.

  Something red, wet and glistening lands nearby with an audible PLOP. Tall Bear Whitley feels them tugging, first at his clothing at then—with a starburst of agony—at his flesh. His eyes close of their own volition.

  "This one has courage," the old man says from far away, "Perhaps we should let him live?"

  …Whitley falls away into the comforting absence of pain.

  PART ONE

  Red Thoughts, White Teeth

  1

  "Daddy, I want hot dogs!

  Joe Case sighed and lowered the sports section of the L.A. Times. Football season. "Annie, didn't Mommy say she was making fried chicken tonight?"

  "But I want hot dogs!"

  The impeccable logic of a toddler. "Patty?"

  "It's up to you."

  Patty had a talent for choosing her battles wisely. The wife of a homicide detective needed a great deal of patience. Case sighed. Meanwhile, Annie extended her lower lip and manufactured the trembling, doe-eyed expression always guaranteed to melt his heart.

  "Will you promise to eat some vegetables?"

  The idea requires serious consideration. Some whining and debating follow, but then comes a tiny shrug of acceptance. "Okay. Carrots and peas."

  "You promise?"

  A solemn crossing of the heart. Case found himself falling in love again, as he did quite frequently these days. Annie was solidly in the 'daddy's little girl' phase; learning the tricks of the female trade by practicing on the old man. The way things were going, she was bound to be a heartbreaker.

  Joe Case watched his only child as she bounced across the living room and back into the kitchen. Annie was clearly her mother's child. She didn't take after him at all; she was slender and delicate. She had Patty's straight blonde hair and piercing blue eyes; the same patrician mouth and chin. Case was a forty-year-old former jock. He stood six-foot-two in socks, had tousled black hair speckled with grey and a rough-hewn face few would have called handsome. At first it had been hard to believe that Annie was actually his daughter. But whenever Case looked into those alert, amused wise eyes he would see her soul and recognize in it a piece of his own.

  "Joe, we don't have any hot dogs."

  He folded the newspaper in half and set it down on the coffee table. The burning issue of whether or not either major political party cares about the people would have to wait. "I'll run down to the market and get some. Do we have buns?"

  "I don't want a bun!" Annie wailed.

  "No whining," Patty admonished. "Joe, if you're going to go better do it fast. It gets crowded on a weeknight." Her voice sounded a bit frayed. Case thought maybe it was time to give Mom a break. He got to his feet, reached to the top of the bookshelf and grabbed his holstered 9mm Glock. He tucked the 'off duty' weapon onto his belt, grabbed a windbreaker from the coat rack beside the front door.

  "Annie, you want to come with me?"

  "No, I'm going to stay here and help Mommy," Annie replied. Case heard a small hiss of air escape from Patty's mouth. She's about had it for the day. Case checked his watch. Maybe he could take Annie out for a game of miniature golf after dinner, play some video games and give Patty a break.

  "We need anything else, honey?"

  "Some low-fat milk and peanut butter."

  "Got it. Back in a few."

  Case left the house in a hurry and nearly tripped over the red plastic tricycle at the bottom of the steps. He righted it and shoved it toward the rose bushes. Case and his wife had purchased the Burbank property, a blue and white 1950s three-bedroom home near NBC Studios, shortly after getting married. They had painted the interior themselves. Annie had been a welcome surprise because Patty had been told she'd be unlikely to bear children.

  Case drove down Maple and headed for the shopping center at Pass and Oak. He liked the gigantic Ralph's market, and he figured he'd run his Toyota through the car wash while he shopped. Southern California had great ways of making the spending of money as convenient as possible.

  The radio was set for AM because Patty had used his car earlier in the day. A pompous windbag was once again blaming everything wrong with the state of the world on the Democrats. Case changed the station and hit the tail end of a vaguely familiar hard rock tune by Sour Candy called The Devil's Reign. He fooled around with the dial and finally tuned in some classic rock from the 1980s.

  Case was whistling a Police tune when he pulled into the center. Since it was an upscale car wash, the attendant was one of those pedestrian-looking surfer types who flood L.A. hoping to make it as an actor. Case eyed the gas prices and cringed. He settled for the cheapest wash and wax. On a whim he decided shopping could wait a bit. He went into the lobby and got himself a cup of coffee from the machine.

  Joe Case considered himself a very lucky man. When his first marriage ended in disaster, he'd sworn off women. Like a lot of cops, he'd assumed the family life was beyond his ken. He'd kept that promise to himself for several years, even gotten quite complacent about his apparent invulnerability to the charms of the fairer sex. That is, until the night he met Patty Heller.

  Case had reluctantly agreed to drop by a friend's costume party one Halloween, although Joe had insisted he would come as a Detective or not come at all. The tall blonde who answered the door was decked out as a nurse. She was a knockout. Patty coolly appraised Case from his ten-dollar haircut to his scuffed loafers. Case returned the favor. She blushed and then offered him a wry and totally intoxicating smile.

  Case spoke first. "You're a nurse, huh?" That was wonderful dipstick. I'm sure she'll really be impressed.

  "Wow, you're observant," Patty responded. "Now let me guess. Are you supposed to be some guy who's fashion-challenged?"

  They had been together ever since.

  In the car wash, Joe Case sipped some watery coffee and watched as the giant, whirling brushes went over his used Toyota. He remembered how much fun he'd had as a kid, riding through the car wash in the family Ford and watching the process from inside. That made him think of his parents, and his stomach churned. He looked down into the paper cup and scowled. The coffee went into a trash can.

  Case strolled along the windows, watching and thinking and remembering other times and places. He'd lost both of his parents when he was just starting high school. He'd lived with his Uncle Jack for three years, done a hitch in the Marines and then joined the LAPD. It was Uncle Jack who'd left him twenty grand, enough to put down on a house.

  Outside, Case watched the horde of minority males descend on his car to wipe it down and polish the fenders. This part of the process always made him feel guilty. He transferred small bills back and forth in his pockets, counting the workers and trying to arrive at what seemed like a reasonable tip. He checked his watch again. He'd been gone nearly half an hour. Patty would want to start dinner soon.

  The ten-items-or-less line at the Ralph's was surprisingly long. Case collected a pack of hot dogs and some low-fat milk in a small plastic basket. He was nearly at the front of the line when he realized that he'd forgotten the peanut butter.

  "Excuse me, but would you hold my place in line for just a
second? I forgot something."

  The customer behind him, a heavyset woman in jeans and a sweatshirt, gave him a glance nasty enough to wither flowers. Finally she nodded.

  "I'll be fast," Case promised. He dashed down the aisle, went all the way to the dairy section. No peanut butter. He started back up the other way, feeling absurdly pressured about having to make the woman wait. Finally, he grabbed a glass container of the first brand he could find and jogged back to the front of the store.

  The overweight woman had already gone past the cash register and her stuff was being bagged. Case studied the customers; two over-dressed ladies chattering in what sounded like Farsi, a black woman struggling to gain control of three screaming children and a steely-eyed garage mechanic with his case of beer. Case sighed and opted not to try to cut back into the line.

  The sun was smearing pastels across the smoggy skyline when he got back to his car. Joe Case loaded the grocery bag into the back seat and drove back down Pass. He turned down his street, fingers drumming along with an old hit by Rod Stewart.

  Case liked having three long days on the job and then four off. Some of the twelve and thirteen hour shifts had been brutal, but the extra time with his family was worth it. Hell, his neighbors were all sitting in rush hour traffic on the 405 or the Ventura, gagging on bad air and flipping each other off. Case was about to have a quiet dinner with his family, when the rest of the block would be lucky to be home by seven-thirty.

  He drove up to his driveway, hit the turn signal and glanced into the front yard. That's when he felt the first flickering of alarm. Someone he didn't recognize, a lanky youth with a buzz cut and baggy trousers, was carrying a television set down his walk. Instead of pulling into the drive, Case drove two houses down and parked. He slipped his 9mm free and strolled down the sidewalk. The kid set the television into the back of a battered white Chevy pickup. Case closed the distance, keeping his expression bland and his voice casual.

  "They moving out?"

  The kid swallowed, shrugged. "I think they're just selling off some old crap they don't need. You know how it is."

  "Oh," Case said. He started to pass the boy, then spun on one leg. The kid smelled trouble. He was fast enough to be bringing up a small, short-barreled .38 Special when the butt of Case's Glock smashed against his temple. He dropped the gun and sank to his knees, his scalp already bleeding. Case kicked him in the crotch, grabbed the back of his shirt and slammed his face into the side of the truck. The kid moaned and went silent. Case searched him, found a knife and tossed it out of reach, up onto the grass near the .38. He cuffed the kid to the locked door.

  "My nose is broke," the scared boy whimpered. "I think you broke my nose, man."

  Case dug the barrel of the Glock into the kid's ear. He kept his voice low and one eye on the house. The front door was standing open. He read the kid his rights. A freakin' home invasion robbery at a cop's house. How dumb can you get…?

  "Hey, it wasn't me, okay?"

  "Wasn't you. What?"

  "I just came along for the ride, homes. It was Tony who wanted to do your house. We was just cruising. I never want to hurt nobody, ese."

  Hurt? Joe Case felt his heart slam like a pile driver.

  "Is it just the two of you? Don't lie or I'll kill you."

  "Yo, man. Just me and Tony."

  Case kept the gun high and trotted up the walk and into the house. He went in low, the gun searching the living room. Everything was quiet. Case eased down the hallway. He flinched when the floorboards squeaked beneath the thick carpet. Someone was making a lot of noise in the master bedroom. Case moved faster.

  The area reeked of his wife's perfume.

  When he peeked around the corner he saw a stocky, muscular kid in a wife-beater shirt going through Patty's jewelry. He had smashed two bottles of her perfume while searching the room. The kid had a small .22 Saturday Night Special tucked into the waist of his jeans. Case drew a bead on his forehead.

  "Police! Freeze right there."

  The kid's eyes went saucer wide. Case could see his feeble, meth-addled mind working; watched him come to a dumb decision and go for the gun. Case fired. The first bullet went a bit high and neatly removed the top of the boy's head. A chunk of bone and hair hit the wall and slid down, leaving a trail of red fluid and grey particles. In a split second, Case over-corrected and fired again. The second bullet shattered the boy's jaw. He dropped like a stone.

  The room now reeked of cordite and the sickly-sweet smell of Obsession by Calvin Klein.

  Case felt wild with adrenalin. Moving rapidly, he peeked over the edge of the bed, half expecting to see his wife and daughter there. Nothing. He went into his daughter's bedroom and there they were, lying on the bed. Their hands and feet had been bound with an extension cord. Case holstered his weapon. Sobbing with relief, he knelt by the bed and groped at Patty's hands.

  "It's all over honey. I'm here."

  Patty didn't answer. But of course, she would also be gagged. Case ran his hands up her shoulders to the back of her head. His fingers pierced her skull and sank into something warm and sticky.

  "Oh, God. Oh, God."

  He knew before he felt for a pulse that the little .22 round had ricocheted around inside of her skull and destroyed her brain without exiting again. A horrified numbness swept over him. Case clutched the dresser and dragged himself up into a standing position.

  He forced himself to look closely at what remained of his beautiful little daughter…

  The kid cuffed to the truck was straining to reach the handgun when he saw Case stride purposefully back out into the front yard.

  "Wait, man! No!"

  Joe Case ignored every bit of training he'd received. He took a cursory look up and down the block. He fired once into the kid's right shoulder. The boy flew backward into the truck and groaned in pain. His eyes were focused intently on the weapon in Case's trembling hands.

  "But you're a cop…!"

  Case fired again, into the groin. The boy cried out, like a woman giving birth. His face registered his terror and agony. Satisfied, Case fired a third time and hit him in the throat. The boy began to bleed out. Joe Case went up onto the lawn. He kicked the knife and gun down the slope and back to within a couple of feet of the kid.

  That was his last rational act.

  Detective Joe Case sat down in the cool grass, head in hands, and finally allowed himself to cry.

  2

  About one year later Kelly McCammon got a promotion to die for. Ms. McCammon was a "D Girl," a development executive. She worked at Starburst Pictures, one of Hollywood's ubiquitous production companies. Despite the recent economic downturn and the assault of DVD copying and file ripping that was plaguing the industry, their firm still had a three-room office on the back lot at Warner Brothers. Kelly was an athletic, naturally-endowed brunette; high-strung and sleek in a NYC kind of way, yet already so nearly assimilated she had started considering plastic surgery for the first time. She was just six months shy of her thirtieth birthday, when that famed biological clock begins to tell some women that having a high-profile career maybe isn't such a big deal after all.

  But not Kelly.

  In fact, despite the long hours and verbal abuse, Kelly reckoned her life was as close to perfect as it could be short of finally leasing that silver Lexus and taking an overdue ski vacation in the Swiss Alps. She had a six-figure job, substantial prestige, maître d's who called her by name, clout with executives around town and her name on an impressive resume of pictures that had actually gotten produced.

  And she also had a date that night. A night-on-the-town dancing date with a real hunk, television star Brian Dylan. Still, there was some trouble in paradise. Kelly McCammon, a Dean's List graduate of Berkeley with a BA in Fine Arts and a JD from UCLA, who could type ninety words a minute and likely persuade God to accept a piece of the back end, worked for a balding, paunchy, hormone-addled, obsessive-compulsive little tyrant named Bud Silverman. Bud had survived the accoun
ting collapse of late '09 by shifting his liquid funding into and out of some seriously shady Hedge Fund accounts. Oh, Bud knew about his partners, the Russian Mob, the Vegas boys and all the other players. He just held his nose. Tight. And kept on making bad movies. Bud Silverman was a piece of work. In fact, one "hormone-maddened, butt-cheek-grabbing, boob-fondling, adolescently-drooling, innuendo-dropping, needle-dicked little weasel," as Kelly's good friend Shakira would say. Shakira, whose real name was Rowaneeda, often held forth over drinks at The Palm. Rowaneeda hailed from South Central, but Shakira sounded better. The name change had gotten her a couple of commercials and a SAG card.

  The morning Kelly got the promotion to die for, the alarm went off and some pop music started playing on her iPod. Despite her imminent date with Mr. Brian Dylan, Kelly McCammon blew off going to the gym. There was nothing unusual about the day, but something about the dreary sameness of Los Angeles had started to depress her. Here we go again: Some morning fog, clearing to 75 degrees and sunny in the valleys by the afternoon. L.A. sucks. And then a thought crossed her mind, one that would inexorably alter her life.

  I may as well go in to the office early and get some things done…

  Kelly bounced into the shower, dressed rapidly and headed for the local Coffee Snob "Caffine-0-Rama," where she ordered one obscenely over-priced Latte Grande with non-fat milk and cinnamon. She also purchased a gigantic banana-bran "Healthy Start Muffin," a name which doubtless constituted an oxymoron.

  Kelly drove down Riverside drive, only mildly annoyed by the omnipresent parking lot of a thoroughfare. She watched the various drivers swearing out loud, honking, chain smoking, and bobbing their heads to invisible music.

  As she approached the Burbank Studios, more and more entertainment folks were strolling along the sidewalk, holding their own cardboard cups of designer java. Only L.A. could make morning coffee a status symbol. The headset-free cell phone craze could be truly disconcerting. Generally when you see someone shouting to himself on a sidewalk it is cause for alarm. Here, they were probably just closing a deal.