And Spare Them Not

 Part 1 of 2

 from Like a Flower in the Field

  

Max Silver loved the little piece of ground he called his tomato patch. Situated in one corner of his backyard, it wasn’t much more than eight feet wide by twelve feet long, but the production every year amazed him. Maybe it was the late morning and early afternoon sun, or the yards and yards of steer manure he worked into the soil every year. Whatever it was, from June through October the fruit just kept coming. He loved passing out lunch bags filled with ripe tomatoes to his neighbors, and they seemed to enjoy them as much as he did. Hey, Max, they would say, how are those tomatoes coming? One neighbor, the house just across the street, would turn the ripe fruit into salsa and share several jars every season.

Today he was busy nipping and pruning and staking his thriving plants. It was late May and soon the blossoms would turn into small green globes, and if left unsupported, the weight would be too much for the vines to bear. The sun was nearly down on this warm May day and he started to think about the cold beer waiting for him in the fridge. His daughter and granddaughter were at the movies and wouldn’t be home until well after dark. He’d be on his own for dinner tonight.

Max had lived in the little wood frame house in a northern suburb of Sacramento for thirty years. He and his wife Stella poured lots of love and care into the place, even as the neighborhood began to decline. When Stella lost her battle with cancer eight years ago, he carried on, even though the house was empty without her. Then his daughter Marnie went through a divorce, and five years ago, Marnie and his granddaughter Jessica moved in to fill a part of the gaping hole in his life. Now all that love and care flowed in their direction.

He was gathering his tools when he heard two sharp cracks and the faint sound of glass breaking. Then two more cracks. Max was a hunter and Vietnam veteran; he knew it was gunfire. He dropped his tools and hurried to the gate at the side of the house. As he reached for the latch, he looked through the gate, and then froze.

A young man wearing a hooded sweatshirt crossed the street, headed toward a car parked at the curb, a gun in his right hand down at his side. Max could see his face clearly. He knew this boy: a neighborhood tough named Sonny. Years earlier, he had played on a Little League team Max had coached. Sonny was a handful then, difficult to control, impossible to teach, an all-around nasty little kid. And now he’d graduated to firearms. The young man climbed into the car and the wheels screeched as it tore away from the curb.

Max left the gate and backtracked to his patio. He kicked off his shoes as he entered the house and hurried to the front room. The drapes were open and through the large window he saw the house across the street and four round holes—the four shots he’d heard—in the living room window. Now he heard screams and shouts emanating from the home.

The screams and shouts continued and neighbors along the block came out on their porches to see what was happening. Sirens pierced the gathering dusk. Something tragic was unfolding and Max was a terrified witness.

***

The neighborhood swarmed with law enforcement. A half-dozen patrol cars clogged the street and yellow crime scene tape stretched along the perimeter of the lot across the way. Uniformed and plain-clothes officers moved about. Down the block, behind a set of barricades, television trucks and their crews stood by. Max sat in his La-Z-Boy recliner against the back wall of his living room. The house was dark. No one looking in the window could see him sitting there.

Okay, now what? Should he simply walk out there and tell the deputies what he had seen? And if he did, what then? His home and family would become the next targets. It would be like hanging a bullseye on his front room window: shoot here. His cell phone rang, startling him so that he jumped in the chair. It was his daughter Marnie.

“Dad, what’s going on? We can’t get into the neighborhood. There’s a line of cars here on Maple Street and I see a sheriff’s roadblock up ahead.”

“There was a shooting—”

“A what?”

“A shooting. Across the street at the Preston’s house.”

“Oh my God! Was anyone hurt?”

“I don’t know yet. Look, don’t come home. Don’t even try to get in here. Take Jessica and go to Aunt Millie’s.”

“But we don’t have any clothes or—”

“It’s not safe here, Marnie.” He could not hide the tremor in his voice. “Go to Aunt Millie’s. I’ll pack a bag and get some things to you tomorrow.”

“But, Dad—”

Max stifled her protests and ended the call.

The activity out on the street continued and Max wondered what had happened and why. The Prestons were good neighbors, never a problem. Their little girl, Ellie, was ten years old, the same age as his granddaughter. The two girls played together constantly, walked to school together, shared birthdays. Ellie was a sweet and friendly child, round-faced and chubby, always smiling. She’s the one who delivered the fresh salsa the Prestons made from his tomatoes, and she helped her mother bake cookies for the Silvers at holiday time. Ellie had an older brother—Max couldn’t remember his name. Was he the target? Gangs and drugs were a reality in the neighborhood. Could it be gangbangers in some kind of turf battle? If so, Max was not getting involved. Let them go right ahead and thin out the herd.

His hands shook as he called his sister’s number. Before he could tell her that Marnie and Jessica were on their way, she interrupted him.

“Max, are you watching the news?”

“What? No. No I’m not—”

“There’s a report about a shooting in your neighborhood. My God, Max, someone shot a little girl.”

 “What?”

“A ten-year-old girl, Max. Someone shot her in the back of the head while she was sitting on the couch watching television. She’s dead.”

Millie continued, recapping the news report. Max could hardly breathe. Oh my God! Ellie? They shot Ellie! Oh God. The animals, the goddamn animals. A little girl…a sweet innocent little girl.

Max ended the call with Millie after making her promise to keep Marnie and Jessica safe. He would bring clothes and toothbrushes and whatever they needed tomorrow. As he put down the phone, that telltale taste rose in the back of his mouth. He hurried to the bathroom to toss the contents of his stomach, though all he could produce was bile. He rinsed his mouth and splashed water in his face. His friends often told him he resembled the actor, Charles Bronson. When he looked in the mirror now, he saw a frightened old man.

***

Max parked near the phone booth adjacent to the convenience store. He turned the business card over and over in his hand. The detective had handed it to him that morning at the close of the conversation at Max’s front door. No, he had seen nothing, heard nothing. He’d been in his garden out back. No, no one else was home at the time. His daughter and granddaughter had been away at a movie.

All the while, Max scanned the street behind the officer. Who was watching, timing the length of the conversation? Just give me your damn card and get off my porch! That’s what he wanted to say. And then the detective was gone, the door closed with Max leaning hard against it, his heart racing.

Now here he was, ready to call from a payphone, certainly not from his cell that could be easily traced. He punched in the number and listened to it ring, again and again. An operator answered and he asked for Detective Roy Combs. She patched him through to Combs’s mobile number.

“Hello, this is Detective Combs. Hello?”

Max held a folded handkerchief over the mouthpiece. “Yeah, I may have—” He stopped and began again. “I have information about the shooting on Chestnut Lane.”

“Okay, let me get my notebook. Now, sir, what is your name?”

“Before I say anything, I need to know…can you protect my family, my home? You’ve seen what these animals will do.”

“Sir, I can’t promise anything until you tell me what you know.”

Max slammed the phone into its cradle, then picked it up and slammed it again and again. Sonofabitch, sonofabitch! They can’t protect you, they won’t protect you. He climbed back into his car and drove around aimlessly, looking for a way out, but there were no options. Max had to tell Combs what he saw, who he saw leaving the scene with a gun in his hand. He couldn’t let Sonny get away with it. He pulled into a service station and parked near a phone booth. Again, the operator patched him through.

“Detective Combs speaking. Who is calling, please?”

“Look, just tell me you’ll try to protect my family. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Okay, sir, this is Mr. Silver, right? Max Silver? You live across the street from the Prestons. I spoke to you this morning. I recognize your voice, Mr. Silver.”

Max’s heart pounded out of his chest again. He started to hang up, but what good would that do? “Is there somewhere we can meet? Not at my house. Not in the neighborhood.”

They settled on a small café a few blocks away. Max hung up the phone and then used the handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He would tell Combs what he had seen. But he would not testify in open court, if it came to that. No way in hell would he testify.

 ***

Sonny had been easy to find, along with the two bangers who’d been with him that night. The three of them were being held without bail pending trial. It turned out Sonny had confessed, which was good news for Max. Roy Combs assured him he would not have to testify. They had the confession, they had the murder weapon, and the District Attorney was planning to seek the death penalty. Ellie was dead; no way to change that fact. Even though the death penalty was a joke in California, at least her killer and his pals would be going away for a long time. Max hoped to see life return to normal—or near-normal—on Chestnut Lane.

So why did Combs want to meet with him now? Were there new developments in the case? Max checked his watch. He did not want to be late for the meeting.

_____

Coming soon: Part 2. What news does Roy Combs have for Max? And how will it change his life? Don’t miss the conclusion.

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