CHAPTER 48: Sugar Gum Euc

Jackson picked Grace up from UCLA Medical Center and they said little on the drive home to her condo in Pacific Palisades, but when she tried to get out of the car, she moaned, “Lord, I ache!”

“Let me help,” he said, lifting and carrying her up the elevator to her fourth-floor condo. He unlocked the door, laid her gently on the bed. A few minutes later, she fell asleep curled against him.

Grace faded in and out of an uneasy sleep. Her cellphone buzzed. She slept through it. Jackson set it to silent mode.

Late afternoon, she roused herself. The door was ajar and she could see Jackson reading in the living room.

She listened to her messages on speaker as she lay back on the bed. Jackson looked up, walked to the kitchen, filled the kettle. The fifth message was Chase Stanford’s voice, “Hope you’re feeling better, Grace. You have a ton of get well cards. The Trib will deliver everything to you tomorrow, about 2ish. You’ll need to sign for it so if that doesn’t work for you, let me know and we’ll reschedule. OK, that’s all for now. Get well soon, Grace.”

“That’s nice,” said Jackson, bringing her a cup of tea. “Let’s have lunch and then go back to bed.”

“Good plan,” said Grace.

The next morning, Grace woke late. “Jackson?” she called out. Silence.

On the table next to her bed, he’d left a glass of orange juice, an apple and a red book, Great American Poetry Anthology. She read his note, tucked between its pages:

Taking a walk, picking up croissants. Sleep, rest. Love, J.

She turned over and went back to sleep.

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The Los Angeles Tribune van parked in front of Grace’s building next to a line of thick Cypress standing like soldiers by the front entrance.

In a gray Honda Civic down the street, Stefan shoved Warren Jonah awake. “Looks like the phone tap paid off,” he said.

“Finally,” said Jonah.

The street was quiet and young delivery driver never saw it coming. Stefan held him as he slumped, laid him down behind the driver’s seat.

Jonah pulled himself up into the van. “He’s not dead, is he?” he asked.

“Nah,” said Stefan, wiggling a taser. “Out cold.”

The van was full of bundles of newspapers and a few shelves held bins with mail. Jonah quickly found the package from The Los Angeles Tribune addressed to Grace Newman. He carefully opened it, ignored the get well cards and pulled out a padded envelope addressed to Grace Newman in Boyle’s handwriting. He opened it, fondled the flash drive chock full of incriminating data and read Boyle’s note:

I’m burning in hell. A little gift so others can join me. Seamus Boyle.

“It’s like some fuckin’ package from Hades,” laughed Stefan.

Jonah returned the flash drive and the note into the padded envelope, pulled a tape dispenser from his back pocket and carefully taped both packages shut. As he placed the Tribune package to Grace back on the shelf where he’d found it, he said, “She’ll never miss it.”

“Trinity’s gonna be supa stoked,” said Stefan, giving Jonah a high five. “Supa stoked.”

Jonah returned the high five. “Supa dupa stoked,” he said, imitating Stefan’s New Jersey accent and laughing with relief.

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Jackson approached the van with The Los Angeles Tribune emblazoned in big letters across its sides and back, assumed it was delivering Grace’s mail. He heard men talking. “Trinity’s gonna be supa stoked,” said a thick New Jersey accent. “Supa stoked.” Laughter. “Supa dupa stoked,” said another voice as Jackson set the bag of croissants down on the curb.

The van’s back doors opened and Warren Jonah jumped out, closed the doors behind him. He turned and the look of surprise when he saw Jackson was almost comical.

Jonah hugged Boyle’s envelope to his chest. Jackson turned his head to read the label. Grace’s name was written in big capital letters. “That’s a federal offense,” he said, grabbing the envelope, but Jonah wouldn’t let go.

Stefan heard the conversation, put the keys in the ignition, and backed up. Jackson jumped aside but the bumper hit Jonah’s leg and he fell under the van. Stefan shifted into drive and Jonah was dragged, screaming, down the street. The envelope flew to the curb and landed in a neatly trimmed boxwood hedge in front of a house with a white picket fence.

Jackson ran after the van and jumped onto the bumper, thumping on the back doors. “Stop the van!” he yelled, grabbing at Jonah as his body banged angrily against the street and the tailpipe. Jackson smelled the unmistakable stench of burning flesh. They took a corner and Jonah’s head hit the pavement hard; his screams stopped and his body broke loose and rolled away, his arms flapping lifelessly back and forth.

Hugging the back of the van, Jackson pulled himself inside, the doors banging open and shut behind him. Stefan turned corners and swerved from side to side. Jackson tripped over stacks of newspapers and almost fell back out the door. He grabbed shelving and worked his way forward again.

Stefan watched Jackson’s progress through the rear-view mirror, pulled a gun and fired. Jackson ducked and threw a stacks of newspapers at Stefan until one hit its mark. The gun flew from Stefan’s hand and ricocheted across the van, skidded across the floor and out the back door.

The van careened on. Jackson looked out the front window and knew exactly where they were. They were barreling west down Via De La Paz, past multi-million-dollar homes. As they passed West Friends Street, he knew the road would end soon at the spot where he and Grace watched the sun set from the brim of the 300-foot Palisades cliff.

Jackson lay on top of the unconscious driver behind the driver’s seat and braced for impact. Seconds later, Stefan saw the dead end, made a hard left and jumped the curb. Impact with the solid trunk of a mighty eucalyptus brought the van to a full stop. The airbag exploded on the driver’s side.

The delivery driver came to and tried to get up. “Don’t move,” said Jackson, rising. “Stay put, wait for the medics.”

“Stay put?” asked the young man.

“Yes, relax your breathing, brother. I’ll get help.” Jackson headed for the back doors.

Up front, Stefan used his switchblade to deflate the airbag, released his seat belt and, unsteadily, got out of the van. A crowd gathered on the front lawns of their McMansions. They sang a steady chorus, “Call 911! Call 911!”

Jackson confronted Stefan under the eucalyptus tree, blood dripping down his face, a menacing looking switchblade in his right hand.

Four boys pulled up their bikes, watched, their mouths hanging open. “Hey,” said one. “Whatcha doin’?” asked another. Adults rushed over, pulling them back and yelling, “Call 911! Call 911!”

Stefan, slashed at the air with his switchblade. The circle drew back, parents yelled, “He’s got a knife! Call 911! Call 911!”

One of the kids threw a rock and hit Stefan on the side of his head. “Stay back, or I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” he yelled.

“Have to go through me first,” said Jackson, pulling his pocketknife from his belt loop and standing with his legs solidly planted beside the trunk of the mighty euc.

“Where’s da envelope?” growled Stefan.

“Coupla miles back,” said Jackson.

Stefan roared and sliced Jackson’s chest; a line of red appeared across the white linen of his shirt. Stefan threw his muscled body at Jackson and they fell onto a scraggly patch of grass littered with eucalyptus leaves and curls of ivory bark.

Jackson tried to stab Stefan with his knife, but Stefan made another strike with his switchblade and a red line of blood oozed across Jackson’s upper arm. Jackson rolled away and saw, embedded in the patchy grass, a whirlybird lawn sprinkler. He yanked it from the ground and, as Stefan came in for another attack, drove its metal stake into Stefan’s chest, pushing hard.

Stefan swayed. Like a tree when it’s felled, thought Jackson as he rolled toward the euc.

“It’s not over,” whispered Stefan as he fell forward onto the sparse, dusty patch of grass, driving the stake deep into his heart.

Jackson fell back and felt the dirt beneath him, packed and hard as cement as a ring of curious adults and kids formed around him and stared down.

One man with intensely kind brown eyes took to his knees and leaned over Jackson. Blood oozed like molten red glass over the dusty blades of grass.“Don’t move,” he said as he called over two woman and instructed them on how to press down on the wounds.

Jackson turned his head and studied the van solidly embedded in the thick variegated trunk of the eucalyptus. That’s gonna leave a mark, he thought. Sugar Gum Euc. Eucalyptus cladocalyx.

Dizziness overcame him. Hard to work. Fiddleback, interlocking grain. Aussie, he thought as the world faded away. “Good on you, mate,” he mumbled before passing out.

In a ring around him, kids on bikes stared. “Good on you, mate,” said one, laughing. “Good on you!”

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Ten minutes later, a neighbor knocked on Grace’s door. “Grace? Honey? You awake? It’s me, Ginger.”

“Hi, Ginger. I’m up, but it’s hard to walk. Door’s locked, sorry. Jackson’ll be back soon.”

“No worries. Leticia found an envelope down the street, stuck in a bush. It’s from New York, addressed to you at The L.A. Tribune. I’m just gonna leave it here, honey, outside your door.”

“Thanks, Ginger!” said Grace as she rolled over and fell into a deep sleep. She dreamed about a lush and peaceful valley under a sky heavy with water, heavy with promise.