Infidel Page 2

  “Dan, I’m onboard one hundred percent with whatever you decide to do. I’m not suggesting this, but you could apply for an early-out, take a reduced pension, and come work with me.”

  After retiring, Arnie had taken a position with a security firm providing policing services to various Westside malls and shopping centers. Since then he’d risen in the corporate structure, and he was now making double what he’d been taking home as a cop—not to mention drawing his LAPD pension as well. But my problem wasn’t money.

  “Thanks, Arnie,” I said. “Actually, I’m thinking about that.”

  “Anytime, Dan. Just let me know.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced at my watch. 2:15 p.m. The ceremony was scheduled to start in forty-five minutes, and guests had already begun filling the chairs that Ali’s wedding coordinator had arranged in a broad, semicircular pattern across the lawn. “Catheryn would have loved this,” I said, changing the subject.

  “Yeah, she would have,” Arnie agreed.

  Just then I noticed an older man making his way in from the parking lot, shuffling slowly past one of the lush gardens. Recognizing cellist Arthur West, a former LA Philharmonic associate of Catheryn’s, I decided to give him a hand. “I’ll see you after the ceremony,” I said to Arnie. “You’re coming to the reception at the beach house?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, amigo. See you there.”

  I caught up with Arthur West on the far side of the lawn. He was leaning on a cane, which was proving little help on the soft grass. “Let me give you a hand there, Arthur,” I said. I placed an arm around the older man’s shoulders, surprised at how frail he felt beneath his tuxedo jacket.

  “Detective Kane,” said Arthur with a brittle smile. “At this point I’d be thankful for any assistance, even from you.”

  I hadn’t seen Arthur since Catheryn’s memorial, and I was dismayed at how much he had deteriorated over the intervening months—his cancer seeming to have devoured whatever flesh still remained on his bones, leaving little more than a skeleton. Nevertheless, Arthur had always been a handsome man, and even now he still retained some of his regal bearing.

  “Arthur, we haven’t always been best of friends, most of which was my fault,” I said, guiding him toward one of the lawn chairs in front. “But considering all we’ve been through, maybe you should call me Dan.”

  “Fine, Dan,” Arthur replied as I helped him to one of the padded white chairs. “And I appreciate your help. I hate being seen in public like this, but I wouldn’t have missed Allison’s wedding for the world.”

  “You’re welcome, Arthur. And I’m happy you’re here,” I said, realizing the effort it must have taken him to be present. I hesitated, then sat beside him. There were things I wanted to say to Arthur, and I knew from his appearance that I wouldn’t have many more opportunities to do so.

  Struck by something in my manner, Arthur regarded me closely. “How are you doing, Dan?”

  “I’ve been better,” I admitted.

  Arthur smiled. “I know what you mean.” Then, glancing around the grounds, “Catheryn would have adored this.”

  “Yeah. I just told someone the same thing.”

  “Dan, we didn’t get a chance to talk much at the service,” Arthur continued. “I want you to know how sorry I am for your loss.”

  “Thanks. And I know how close you and Catheryn were. I know her death was a terrible loss for you, too. Arthur, we’ve had our problems in the past, and I want to apologize for—”

  “I don’t think we need to go into that unfortunate misunderstanding,” Arthur interrupted. “Consider the matter closed.”

  “No, I need to get this off my chest,” I said. “For years I was jealous of the bond you and Catheryn had with your music, and when I thought you two were . . . anyway, I said and did things for which I’m ashamed. I’m sorry, Arthur. Truly sorry.”

  “Well, as we’re clearing the air here, I suppose I have a confession of my own,” said Arthur. “No offense, Detective, but I always thought that Catheryn could have done so much better than you.”

  I looked away. “The thought occurred to me, too. More than once.”

  “And actually, you weren’t that far off with your suspicions,” Arthur continued. “I loved Catheryn from the first time I heard her play. The truth is, if I’d been able to, I would have stolen her from you without a second thought.”

  Surprised by Arthur’s admission, I remained silent. For years Catheryn and Arthur had been stand-mates at the LA Philharmonic—Arthur the principal cellist, Catheryn the associate cellist—and over the years I had felt progressively excluded from a pivotal part of Catheryn’s life. To my shame, at one point I had even become convinced there was more to their relationship than music.

  “But that didn’t happen,” Arthur went on. “We were close, and we shared a life together in music, but she loved you, only you. You were a lucky man, Dan. I envy you. You had someone who truly loved you.”

  I nodded. “Sometimes I think it was more than I deserved.”

  Neither of us said anything for a while. “Will you be coming to the reception at the beach?” I asked at last.

  Arthur shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

  Another long silence. Finally I took Arthur’s hand. “Thank you for coming,” I said. I held his gaze, knowing it would probably be the last time we spoke. In his eyes, I saw that he knew it, too. I held his hand a moment longer, then released it.

  “Take care of yourself, Arthur.”

  “You too, Dan. You, too.”

  As planned, Allison’s wedding commenced promptly at 3:00 p.m., with a string quartet composed of Philharmonic musicians playing a Bach cantata as the processional. By then nearly everyone had arrived, and the chairs on the lawn were filled. Determined to shrug off my depression, I escorted my daughter down a flower-strewn central aisle, trailing behind a smiling young flower girl and an equally young but clearly nervous ring bearer, who were walking together in front of us, side-by-side.

  Allison looked movie-star gorgeous, her five-month pregnancy barely showing, if anything making her look even more radiant. She had worn her long auburn hair up for the occasion, and she had on an antique emerald pendant of Catheryn’s. In her full-length white gown, she reminded me so much of her mother. Like Catheryn, Allison could look great without much effort. And when she wanted to, like today, she could look stunning.

  Scanning the smiling faces of family and friends as Allison and I proceeded down the aisle, I felt a contradictory mix of pride and regret, recognizing so many of the people who had been pivotal in our family’s life, but again wishing that Catheryn could have been present to see them.

  All too soon we arrived at an elaborate wedding arch, the place where the ceremony would be performed. Mike, Ali’s husband-to-be, stood waiting to the right, looking both elated and nervous as I presented him with Allison’s hand. As I did, I caught his eye and gave him a nod that said everything was going to be all right.

  Looking tall and handsome in his tux, my older son Travis—who had flown in from New York with his girlfriend and Ali’s best friend, McKenzie Wallace—stood with Mike, along with my youngest son, Nate, and Mike’s best man, cinematographer Don Sturgess. Bridesmaids McKenzie and Christy White, another close family friend, stood to the left of the matrimonial arch, grinning at Allison as we arrived. Even Nate managed a fleeting smile.

  Nate, who would be turning seventeen in June, had shot up several inches in height over the past year. Now at a bit over six feet, he stood nearly as tall as Travis. If he kept growing, I thought absently, he was going to be as big as I am, and the resemblance didn’t stop there. Nate was strong, street-smart, and athletically gifted, but he had a dark streak as well. His recent years of adolescence had not been easy, either for him or for the rest of our family. Fiercely loyal, quick to both laughter and anger, his moods as transparent as glass, Nate, God help him, was the most like me.

  After leaving Allison at the wedding arbor, I took a front-ro
w seat on the left side of the aisle, settling in beside my mother, Dot, and my sister, Beverly—both of whom had traveled from Texas to attend the wedding. To my right sat Catheryn’s mother, Dorothy. A tall, attractive woman in her early sixties, Dorothy had driven down the coast from her home in Santa Barbara and had been staying at our Malibu beach house to help with Ali’s wedding preparations. As I took my seat, Dorothy reached across and grasped my hand, shooting me a smile. I smiled back, not for the first time realizing the source of Catheryn’s good looks.

  Father Donovan, our parish priest from Our Lady of Malibu Catholic Church, had agreed to perform the ceremony. Years back Father Donovan had married Catheryn and me, and over the following decade he had baptized our four children in turn. Later he had presided over a funeral for our firstborn son, Thomas. And more recently, Father Donovan had presided over a memorial for Catheryn. As such, he had a deep and enduring history with our family, and Allison had been adamant that he perform her wedding ceremony.

  There had been a hitch. Because Mike wasn’t baptized and couldn’t in good conscience agree to be, Allison and Mike had to jump through hoops to get the Catholic Church’s blessing for their union. Although a “disparity of cult” dispensation was eventually granted, the wedding ceremony couldn’t include a Mass, nor could it take place in a Catholic church, a compromise that would have been a huge disappointment for Catheryn. I stayed out of things, deciding that it was Allison’s day and Allison’s wedding, so it was her decision to make.

  As it was, the compromise actually worked out well, as our family still had painful memories associated with Our Lady of Malibu Church, having attended Catheryn’s memorial service there just months earlier. At any rate, I think Catheryn eventually would have approved, and Mike and Ali preferred an outdoor venue, anyway.

  Once the ceremony got underway, Father Donovan kept things rolling, and the wedding progressed quickly. There were a few changes to Mike and Allison’s nontraditional ceremony, additions they had requested that included the lighting of a unity candle, symbolizing the joining of their lives, and a second departure in which Ali and Mike each poured colored sand into an ornate glass vase, again symbolizing their lives becoming one.

  In a surprise inclusion that followed, Father Donovan next asked everyone who approved of Ali and Mike’s marriage, family and friends alike, to stand. Then he asked everyone standing, which of course included the entire assembly, to raise a hand and vow to encourage, support, and nurture Mike and Allison’s union in every way possible. From the look on my daughter’s face, I could tell this wasn’t something she had planned. Nevertheless, it was a powerful moment that in a true sense made everyone there an active participant in Mike and Ali’s marriage, and I was unexpectedly moved by it.

  Before the exchange of rings, the string quartet played again, this time performing the Borodin Nocturne. It was the same piece that Catheryn had arranged to be played at our own wedding, and during the musical interlude I let my mind drift with the music, revisiting memories I hadn’t thought about in years.

  Not long afterward, following the formal exchange of vows, Father Donovan concluded the ceremony by giving Mike permission to kiss the bride. Then, raising his voice to be heard over an enthusiastic round of whistles and cheers, Father Donovan readdressed the assembly, once again asking everyone to stand. Allison and Mike turned to face us. Placing a hand on each of their shoulders, Father Donovan smiled and said, “It is my great pleasure to ask you to open your hearts and welcome into our midst, now and from this day forward, Mr. and Mrs. Michael Cortese.”

  Lowering their heads against a showering of rose petals and confetti, Mike and Ali ran hand-in-hand down the center aisle, grinning like school kids.

  As if in a dream, I stood with the others and applauded the new couple, pleased by the joy I saw on my daughter’s face, yet paradoxically feeling more isolated and alone than ever.

  Chapter 2

  Jacob Lee Wallace had plenty of reasons to hate Muslims.

  Topping the list, years back Jacob’s older brother, Corporal Benjamin Wallace, had been dragged behind a truck through the streets of Fallujah, dismembered, hung from an Iraqi bridge, and set afire by laughing Muslims chanting anti-American slogans. There were other reasons for Jacob to hate Muslims, almost too many to count, but he kept a mental inventory of them all, adding to it daily. Still, he resisted the temptation to surrender to that hate, for he knew that hate was unacceptable in the eyes of the Lord.

  If there was one thing Jacob’s minister father had taught him as a boy, it was that you must love your enemies. But Jacob also realized that loving your enemies, even Muslims, didn’t mean one had to ignoring the danger their burgeoning numbers posed in our country. With a feeling of pride, Jacob realized he had been chosen as God’s instrument to deal with that danger. It was a holy calling, and a calling Jacob fully embraced, certain beyond the slightest doubt that the course upon which he had embarked had always been his one true destiny.

  He knew this because God had told him so.

  From his airy perch on a tree-covered hillside in Trancas Canyon, concealed beneath the rocky outcrop where God had first spoken to him, Jacob gazed down upon the compound he had built for his followers. He was pleased with what he saw. In the meadow below, at the end of a dirt road accessing Pacific Coast Highway to the south, an expansive headquarters building dominated the commune’s central square. The long, cruciform structure served multiple functions—as a venue for daily services, group meetings, and meals; as a fortified food and weapons locker; and as an explosives storehouse that, among its other uses, could be triggered in a cleansing apocalypse should the need ever arise.

  Over the years, as the number of Jacob’s followers had grown, a number of lesser outbuildings had also been constructed: sleeping dorms for single men and women, larger sleeping structures for couples, a vehicle storage and repair shop, a cookhouse, a generator shack for the community’s occasional electrical needs, and a personal sleeping bungalow in which Jacob often entertained willing females from his congregation.

  Over the years, Jacob’s community had become increasingly self-sufficient, producing most of its own food and other necessities. Although there was no electricity, telephone, or other modern facilities available at their isolated location, those were comforts Jacob considered unnecessary. An occasional visit to the city by a trusted commune member provided what few items they lacked, and Jacob served as a conduit for whatever news he deemed appropriate for his flock.

  It was a simple life. Simple, and godly.

  As he watched from above, Jacob saw his younger brother, Caleb, leave the men’s dorm and start toward the headquarters building. Jacob glanced at his watch. It was almost time for his afternoon service. With a smile, he rose and began making his way down the hillside. He wasn’t certain yet what the subject of his sermon would be, but he knew that God would inspire him. He always did.

  Moments later Jacob also noticed Rudy Boyle, his sergeant-at-arms, exiting the bunkhouse. Seeing Caleb and Rudy reminded Jacob of their holy mission the previous evening. Caleb, Rudy, and Parker Dillon—another member of their inner circle—had accompanied Jacob to the Bel Air mansion, helping to set in motion events that would eventually expel every Muslim, radical or otherwise, from American soil.

  Of that, Jacob was also certain.

  For again, God had told him so.

  Chapter 3

  It’s a common misconception that most Malibu residents are either movie stars or millionaires. Or movie-star millionaires. Not that there aren’t a few, but there are also plenty of ordinary, hardworking people living in Malibu—people willing to put up with coastal traffic, brushfires, mudslides, floods, and a host of nature’s other challenges to reside in an area that’s beautiful, close to the city, and relatively smog-free.

  Catheryn’s mother had grown up spending summers in Malibu at her family’s getaway cottage on Las Flores Beach, a structure that at the time had been little more than a shack. O
ver the years her family’s modest bungalow had grown, bit by bootlegged bit, and later when Catheryn and I were married, Dorothy had deeded us the property as a wedding gift. It was there that we had raised our four children, with rooms expanded, a porch walled in, and additional bedrooms tacked on to accommodate our growing family.

  Several years back, on a night that had nearly cost us all our lives, our home had burned to the sand, leaving nothing but char and rubble. The value of the original structure had been a mere fraction of the beach lot upon which it sat, and it had been a longstanding family joke that if the termites had moved out and the beach cane and flowering bougainvillea anchoring our shaky structure to the sand were to disappear, our house would have collapsed. Nevertheless, we had all loved it, flaws and all.

  Following the fire we had rebuilt on new piers, pilings, and timbers, and our new home was solid, better than ever. Still, it wasn’t the same, and we all missed the ramshackle, Gilligan’s Island-type dwelling that for so many years had been the linchpin of our lives.

  Tonight, upon returning home following what had seemed an interminable round of photos at the wedding venue, I found that with the exception of a single space reserved out front for the new couple, every available parking spot on the street had been taken by partygoers arriving early. Cars lined the shoulders of Pacific Coast Highway in both directions, and I was forced to leave my Suburban nearly a quarter mile down the beach. Then, upon walking back and descending a side stairway to our redwood deck below, I almost didn’t recognize my own home.

  Over the years we Kanes had thrown more than a few beach parties, generally rowdy affairs involving hundreds of people, beer kegs, luau pits, bonfires, potluck entrées—occasionally even fireworks. To my amazement, for tonight’s reception Ali’s wedding coordinator and her catering crew had transformed what was normally our modest, albeit well designed beach home into an elegant venue that would have fit right in on the pages of any of the matrimonial magazines that Ali had been studying for months.