♦
We got out and dried off under the tree. I reached for my clothes; Lucas had something else in mind. He grinned at me and walked out into the park. No one was around, but still . . . I wondered if he had some exhibitionist in him, or perhaps nudist leanings. He certainly didn’t seem to care if anyone saw him.
Or maybe he did, and he wanted that extra thrill.
Taking a deep breath, I walked out to be with him.
“Isn’t this great!” he enthused.
“Yeah, I can feel that. I can also feel this urge to get back under the tree.”
“Yep, a wuss,” he said, hit me lightly on the shoulder and took off running.
He wanted me to chase him! I thought about it. I visualized it. I’d chase him. I’d catch him. I’d grab him. Then he’d fall down, and I’d fall down with him. Then we’d be together, naked and cavorting out in the open on the grass of a public park. What would happen then?
It took no imagination at all to envision that! So, what was I to do?
I went after him. And the rest happened just as I’d known it would. We ended up, later, dressed and holding hands. The ‘later’ was after again visiting the pool to clean off the grass and anything else that needed rinsing away before getting out and making ready to leave the park.
Okay, I know I made a strong argument earlier that I didn’t want to change our relationship. My only excuse was that I was 12, and at that age, convictions and pledges can’t be expected to stand up against desires. Believe me, they often don’t.
On the other hand, while our relationship did change, it wasn’t the problem I thought it would be. We survived it; we more than survived it. The relationship did change, but in no way was it worse. Different, but not worse. We remained intact as a couple, and both of us were very happy.
I got a text from Dad. When I read it, I was dismayed that it was a text rather than a call, seeing what the situation was. Almost like he was simply dropping the situation in my lap and washing his hands of it.
The text said that we might have a problem. That Kiki had texted him asking to have his stories that he had in his room in New Haven on memory sticks shipped out here to Clay. Kiki had been smart enough to not give out our home address; he’d asked that they be sent to the studio and delivered to the writers of Holly’s Outfit.
The problem, of course, was that if anyone had access to Dad’s phone account, they were now clued in on where Kiki might be. Anyone who knew enough about Kiki to threaten his father with a ransom note might reasonably know that he had a brother living in L.A., a brother who’d written a book and helped on a movie. That ‘anyone’ could make a guess that finding Kiki in L.A. could be done by locating where Clay lived.
The thing was, Dad didn’t know if his cellphone was compromised. He and I were using an untraceable one, but Kiki wasn’t aware of this. He’d probably thought his message to Dad was inconsequential. And it might have been. We simply didn’t know, and Dad wasn’t discussing that with me. He was letting it be my problem.
Dad hadn’t received any further threats from the kidnapper-to-be. It was possible the threat hadn’t ever had sharp teeth. Just someone looking for an easy and lucrative payday.
What could I do? What should I do? That was easy; I should contact the FBI. This was their purview. But Dad was thoroughly against that, and while he and I saw eye to eye on little, he did trust me to keep my word about keeping this remaining secret from any authorities.
I had to figure how valid the threat was, and I had no real way to do that. One factor was that damn sheep. That said something. That was real. It wasn’t empty words. It told me that this threat came from someone who had inside access to the house and therefore to the people in it. Also that he had some capabilities. It also suggested that more than one person was involved as that sheep could hardly have been carried upstairs, avoiding security, by just one man by himself.
But it suggested more than that. It suggested that those involved wanted Dad to know that it was an inside job. I couldn’t figure out why that was, unless it was just to make him more uncertain of how to proceed. To shake him up a little more.
I started thinking about that, and something occurred to me. Yes, the message that it was an inside job was clear, but so was the fact that at least two people were involved—and maybe more.
I had to wonder. Perhaps that was another reason for the sheep, so Dad would have to imagine there was a conspiracy against him. But what if it wasn’t? Could one man get that sheep up there? How?
The way to think about that would be to figure out how I would go about doing it. How would I get a 200-, 250-pound dead sheep up into that bedroom?
I gave that some thought, and some ideas came, and one was better than the others.
I gave Dad a call and asked him how they’d disposed of the sheep.
“We called a disposal service. They sent a crew out and hauled it away. Why?”
I didn’t bother to answer that. “Did you watch them do it?”
“Of course not.”
“Who watched them? Took them up there, paid them?”
“Karl.”
“The head butler?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Do you have the name of the disposal company? And their phone number?”
“No. Karl handled it, just like he does all household business. You want me to ask him?”
“No.”
“So why the questions?”
I didn’t want to tell him. He considered himself the lord of all he surveyed, and keeping things close to his chest would be unlikely unless it involved his money. So I prevaricated.
“Just wondering. With the cost of lamb being what it is today and how cheap you are, I’m surprised you gave it away.”
That started a diatribe, and I was smiling when I hung up. I hadn’t proved my theory but hadn’t wounded it, either.
But that call hadn’t told me what to do, either. I decided not to go crazy because the threat hadn’t escalated. We were in the same position now as before. Yeah, there was the added kicker about Kiki having given away some info, but maybe not, too, and what he’d given away wouldn’t in any real way expose his present location.
But I had to do more than simply think about this. What I did was, I called Kiki and Julia together in the living room. “Kiki, I know you were just doing what you were asked to do, but your Dad thinks your text to him may have given away the fact you’re in L.A. We don’t know. But we should continue to be cautious. Julia, I think you should be on high alert and perhaps be carrying when you’re out and about with Kiki. There’s no reason to think the guy, or guys, know where we live. They might be able to find out, but it seems unlikely they could do that, even knowing which studio I work at. Pete has been trained to make sure he isn’t followed. He carries movie stars, and he’s vigilant due to stalkers.
“Kiki, think about where you are and who’s around. As long as you’re aware of your surroundings and are ready to run if needed, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
Kiki had a couple of questions, and I was happy he wasn’t shrugging this off.
I wasn’t a worrier. I was a doer, a responder. If something happened, I’d deal with it then.
) 0 (
Kiki’s stories had arrived. The package of memory sticks had been delivered to the writers’ room. Kiki asked me to bring it home so he could make any changes that he felt were needed before the other writers saw them.
“They were written starting when I was eight. All of them need editing and to be changed from an eight-year-old’s writing style to something more mature. I think the ideas are still sound, but the framework of them has to be fixed. It’ll be easy to do on the computer. Sure glad I put them on memory sticks.”
Two days later he gave me back the memory sticks, and I took them into work with me. All the writers in the room had laptops, and Barnes passed out sticks. The stories were short enough that we’d all read at least some of them by lunchtime.
In the afternoon session, Barnes asked for our thoughts, and it turned out quite a few of the guys wanted to use some of the ideas they’d read. They all told Barnes what individual ideas they liked, and he wrote them on the whiteboard. We discussed them, and he made assignments. In the end, four upcoming episodes would include some of Kiki’s ideas.
Barnes spoke to me privately when the session ended. Kiki would be paid for his ideas, and handsomely. He also said he’d spoken to Grant Bellingly about this, and he wanted Kiki on the set when those episodes were taped. As that would be well ahead of us, it could be arranged during times Kiki could be absent from school, like during Christmas or spring break, or even next summer.
Kiki wasn’t more than just excited when I told him; he was over the moon. A normal Kiki was a happy, lively Kiki. An exhilarated one was even more fun to watch. He again became a little kid seeing all the presents under a Christmas tree. I think I was as happy as he was, seeing that. I, however, wasn’t bouncing all over the house.
) 0 (
Damn, this place was big. After living in New Haven all these years along with 130,000 others, I wasn’t prepared for this. In fact, it made me uncomfortable. My plan had been to go to the studio, wait until I saw Clay drive in—I’d bought his book and reacquainted myself with his looks by viewing his photo on the back cover—and then follow him home when he left after work. Now, I realized that, in the traffic here, I’d have a hard time keeping Clay’s car in sight and not losing him unless I stayed right on his tail, and that would make his spotting me too easy.
So, if I couldn’t trail him, how could I learn where he lived, where Kiki almost certainly was? I had to find him quickly. The old man had only given me a two-week vacation, had done so grudgingly, and I had to be back when the two weeks were up. Unless I got the money during that time. If so, then I didn’t need to go back at all.
I had to figure this out. How to find a boy mixed in somewhere with about 20 million other people? Well, confined to L.A. County, it would be about half that, but still, it was like finding a particular grain of sand on the Santa Monica beach.
I did have one thing going for me. I knew Kiki as well as anyone in that house did. I simply had to put that knowledge to use. What made him special; what separated him from anyone else?
I thought for a long time, then used the internet to locate the help I needed, found someone, gave him the information that should be critical, and, voilà, I had my answer. Took a couple of days, but it was just that easy if you knew the right thing to look for. Now that I had an address and GPS, all I had to do was find the place, scout it out, and make my move.
Agenda: Locate house. Get boy. Get money. Dispose of boy. Disappear.
Should be a piece of cake.
School was beginning in a week. That meant this was our last week of summer vacation. I still hadn’t seen the sights of L.A. I understood there were lots of them. I asked Julia if she could take me to see what L.A. was all about.
Lucas would go with me since he knew specifics. We were close to the Universal Studio lot, and he said that was interesting and great fun, but if I wanted to be more active, there were many great beaches here, even a nude one pretty close. There was the Venice or Santa Monica beach not far from us, and L.A. had a fine zoo. It also had several good amusement parks. The Dodgers and Angels were both still playing, and if I was into museums, the Getty was fabulous, but he’d have a headache that day and wouldn’t be able to go with us.
“You don’t like museums?”
“All those paintings! Yuck. I’m more an action man than a looker.”
“We’ll save that for some other time, then.” I wanted him with me wherever we went. “Are there other venues where we can do things?”
“Of course. Have you even been to a paintball park? And there are escape rooms we could go to. Go-karts, trampoline parks. Hiking in the mountains. Learning how to surfboard. Zip lines. Lots of stuff.”
So we spent the last week with Julia hauling us around and having a blast. Just one thing to note: I learned that the Pacific Ocean is much, much colder than the Atlantic, even on the hottest days of summer. The last day before school, we decided to stay home and rest. Julia was delighted that she didn’t have two boys to ferry around. After we’d all had breakfast—Lucas had slept over again—and Clay had gone off to work, Julia sat us down and said she had places to go, things to do, and as long as we stayed inside the Beverly-Crest fences, we’d be safe. “Go swimming. Go bike riding. Clean the garage. I’ll see you later.”
She left, and Lucas and I looked at each other. Then he said, “I’d just as soon hang around the house. Don’t really feel much like riding or swimming.”
“Cleaning the garage?” I laughed, but he didn’t look disgusted with the idea.
“We could. I know you cook, but I never do much around here to help any, and I’m here all the time. I’d kinda like to do something to earn my keep.”
The garage wasn’t a huge mess, but like all garages, things that weren’t wanted but too nice to throw away tended to accumulate there. It was a two-car garage and we only had one car and one bike—two with Lucas here—so there was room for clutter, which tended to grow like weeds.
It was more work than expected just deciding what to keep and where to put it; leaving the stuff to be kept where it was wasn’t actually cleaning the garage. We had to organize everything, consolidate it and store it neatly. We started in. I could see right off that this was going to take more time than I’d thought.
) 0 (
I rented a car that had GPS and headed out. I planned it so I’d arrive where he lived well after the time when Clay should be at work—around noon.
Would there be another adult at the house? If so, I’d deal with that situation. The guy I’d hired to find Clay’s address had been expensive, but part of that had been because the guy hadn’t just found me the address; he’d also got me a pistol with a silencer. I hadn’t been able to fly with one, but I’d known I’d be able to get one in L.A.
The guy I’d hired had come through with the address easily enough. I’d told him to look at school databases in the area for boys just transferring in this term with the birthday of October 28th, and who were twelve years of age. There might have been a billion 12-year-old boys living in and around L.A., but how many with that birthday, and how many who were on the school transfer list and lived somewhere close to Clay’s studio? In fact, there was only one who was the right age with the right birthday, was transferring schools and lived in the right general area. So I had his address.
The guy I’d found had access into school databanks. The boy who’d met the search criteria had a last name different from Kiki’s, but the first name was close, and having a changed last name wasn’t a surprise. He was the only boy who fit the other criteria.
Following the GPS directions brought me to the gates of a place called the Bel Air-Beverly Crest Estates. I hadn’t expected a gatehouse nor a man inside monitoring it.
I drove up and stopped next to the window of the gatehouse.
“Can I help you, sir?” the gate attendant asked.
“Yes, I’m here to see Clay Admanson. My name is Matt Tellmann.”
The man seemed to buy it. He raised one arm to press a button next to the window, probably to open the gate, but then he picked up a clipboard with the other hand, checked the list on it, didn’t press the button. Instead, he lowered both arms and said, “I’m sorry, sir. You’re not on the list. Would you like me to call? Though I do know Mr. Admanson isn’t there this morning.”
I frowned, shook my head, then said, “I was told to come today, that Clay’d be at work, but it’s his son I’m coming to meet, and he should be expecting me. I’m a tutor, and I want to see the boy before taking the job. I should be on the list. Could you check again?”
The gate man picked up the clipboard again and dropped his eyes to it, so he didn’t see when I brought the gun up, and I doubt he felt the shot that killed him, either.
Getting out of the car quickly, I reached through the gatehouse window to press the gate button, then pushed the guard off his chair so he wouldn’t be seen by anyone driving into the Estates.
I jumped back into my car and drove through the gate. I wished I had a way to close it again, but I didn’t. Perhaps the same button closed it, but the gate had moved very slowly when opening, and now I felt rushed for time. That was because the shot had been much louder than I’d expected. The silencer had been anything but silent. But it was what it was, and in any case I now shouldn’t be here more than a very few minutes. I wasn’t about to sit patiently in the car waiting to see if that same button also closed the gate.
The GPS took me right to the house. I drove into the driveway, shut off the engine and simply sat for a moment, readying myself.
I had to visualize what was about to happen. Several scenarios were possible, and I needed to be ready to react to any of them. If an adult opened the door, I’d ask if Kiki was home, saying I had a delivery for him. The person would say yes or no. Either way, I’d show the gun and move them back into the house, then close the door. If the answer had been no, I’d find out when the boy would be back; then I’d take the person at gunpoint through the house, just to see if he really wasn’t there. If he wasn’t in the house but was due back soon, I’d dispose of the adult and wait. But that seemed the least likely situation. It was almost lunchtime. Odds were, Kiki should be home.
What was most likely was for the adult to say that Kiki was home. At that point, I’d have the adult call Kiki to the room. When Kiki came in, I’d grab him, shoot the adult, and use my duct tape to secure the kid, throw him in the car and take off. The whole thing should take less than three minutes.
Or, even better, perhaps Kiki would open the door. Then it would just mean pushing my way and Kiki into the house, closing the door, grabbing the boy and taping him. I had to be aware of the pepper spray the boy always carried, but that wouldn’t be anything at all. I was much bigger than Kiki and could certainly control him and not let the spray come into play at all.
If anyone else was there and came into the room, I’d shoot them. Yeah, this was the best, most straightforward, easiest scenario.
I checked the gun, picked up my roll of duct tape, and headed for the front door.
We’d been working a good hour, and Lucas said it was time for a lunch break.
We went back into the house, Lucas stopped in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, surveying, and I kept going into the living room to sprawl on the couch. Then the doorbell rang.
This was the first time since I’d lived here that I’d heard that, but a doorbell sounds like a doorbell, and I got up and went to open the door.
Standing there was François. I was surprised, and then suddenly very scared. François was our chef in New Haven, and there was no way Dad would have given him this address. I’m not a slow thinker. That passed through my head in less than a half second before my hand was into my pocket. I grabbed my pepper spray, but he grabbed my arm as my hand was coming out of my pocket.
“No, no, no, little Kiki. I know all about that. I’ve seen it many times. You aren’t going to spray your friend François, now, are you?”
He squeezed my arm hard and held it steady. No way could I lift it. He pulled it up so my hand left my pocket. I could have triggered the pepper at that point, but spraying his knees wouldn’t help at all.
He shoved his gun into my stomach and said, “I’d very much prefer taking you alive, but if you start to struggle too much, if you get loose and run, I’m an old man. I couldn’t catch you. I wouldn’t even try. What I can and will do is shoot you. Now, drop that pepper spray.”
I opened my hand, and the pepper spray tube fell to the floor.
“Now you’re coming with me.” He pulled me out of the entryway farther into the room, and that was when Lucas came into the room from the kitchen.
“Hey!” Lucas cried.
And François raised his gun, looking at Lucas. I could see his face, his eyes, read his intent. He wasn’t going to frighten Lucas. He was going to kill him.
I was panicking, fighting myself not to give up. The arm François wasn’t holding was free, that hand already plunging into my other pocket. Since the warning Dad had gotten, since he’d tightened security and told me to be extra alert, I’d been carrying two tubes. I’d always heard two was better than one.
My only thought was that I needed that tube to save Lucas; I was focusing on that. My life, too, but I wasn’t thinking of that. Lucas was right there. François’ gun was coming up; he wasn’t paying any attention to me other than still holding tightly to my right arm.
I was praying I was going to be quick enough. I hoped François would hesitate. Fumble the gun. Something. Please, please.
Everything slowed down. The gun was almost in position, coming up aiming at Lucas, who was frozen with a look of abject terror on his face. I was struggling to get my second tube out as fast as I could while finding the triggering tab with my thumb.
François finally—it hadn’t been more than a second; it just seemed longer—had his gun aimed at Lucas and was ready to shoot just as I had the second tube out and raised toward his eyes. I thumbed the trigger.
The spray from one of those tubes was meant to reach a target up to ten feet away. I nailed him with it, full force, from about eight inches.
He never fired the gun. He screamed, let go of my arm, dropped the gun so both hands could be raised to his face, then fell to his knees, still screaming. I stooped down to grab the gun, yelling to Lucas, “Call 911!”
I had my hand on the gun, meaning to knock it away, when François’ hand came down on mine. He was strong! I had the gun, but François was pressing it against the floor, and his hand was on mine, squeezing and pressing down harder.
He’d fallen on top of me, and I couldn’t fight him off; he was way stronger than I was and nuch too heavy to shift. I could only think of one thing to try. The way he was holding my hand, pressing it against the gun and the gun against the floor, my finger had managed to end up inside the trigger guard. I could pull the trigger! But we were both sprawled on the floor. He was lying on me, but we were splayed helter-skelter; I couldn’t tell what was where. Where was the gun pointed? Where was he, and was it pointing at him or me or even Lucas?
It wasn’t pointing at me. I was sure of that. I knew where I was, where Lucas was. But where was the gun pointing? At part of François? Maybe. Maybe not, but I didn’t see any reason to not pull the trigger. If the shot missed François, just the shock of the noise might cause him to shift his weight just enough so I could roll free. So I did. I pulled the trigger.
Damn, it was loud! Louder even than the scream that followed it, this time almost right in my ear.
His weight had been on top of me; I’d been unable to so much as twitch. But with the shot and the scream, he was suddenly rolling off me. It seemed miraculous.
I still had the gun, and I wasn’t about to give it up. As the weight came off, I rolled away as fast as I could. I got to my feet when I was clear of him, stepped farther away, then was able to look at him.
He was back on his knees, mewling, his left arm hanging down, his right cradling his elbow. He was holding that arm, and blood was oozing out between his fingers where he was holding his elbow. His eyes were bright red, his face was swimming in tears, and as I watched, he paled and slumped over onto the floor again. Had he fainted? Looked like it.
Lucas came out of his freeze, shook once like a dog shedding water, then reached into his pocket for his phone. When he had it out, he began punching buttons.
When Pete brought me home—early, due to a distress call from Kiki—we were confronted with police cars at the front gate. I had to show ID to pass through, but they compared it with a list of residents, and while they were doing that, I told one of the men that if they were there about a shooting, it had happened at my house, that I’d gotten a call from my son that the guy was there.
“Yeah, we got a 911 call and found the gate open. One car stayed here, and they found the gate guard inside. He didn’t make it. Another patrol car went to your house, and they found your son holding a gun on a man lying on the floor moaning. That situation is stable now. You can drive home. They’ll let you know what’s going on there.”
Pete drove me home, and I walked in. Kiki jumped off the couch and was in my arms almost before I had both feet inside.
“You okay?” I asked softly. His head was on my chest, but I was sure he could hear me. I kissed his hair. My heart was going faster than usual. I couldn’t help thinking I could have lost him.
He held on for a short time, then pulled away. His face looked normal, and his eyes even had their usual life in them. “He was going to take me away. I don’t know what would have happened then, but the police say he killed the guy at the gate, he tried to shoot Lucas, so he probably would have killed me, too. But I stopped him.”
Lucas was still on the couch where he’d been sitting next to Kiki. Now he got up and came over to us. “He saved my life. The guy was going to shoot me, and Kiki saved my life.”
Kiki reached out and touched him. Didn’t say anything, but that touch said a lot.
The police were hauling the man away. “Do you know him?” I asked Kiki.
“Yeah, he was my friend. The chef back home. Well, this is home.” He paused long enough to give me a hard look. “He was the chef back where I used to live. He was the adult member of the staff there that I liked best. He taught me how to cook. This is hard to believe. I guess he wanted money, and that meant more to him than I did—or our friendship. I’d thought if the threat came from anyone at the house, it would have been Karl. He and I avoided each other as much as possible; he didn’t like me at all. He didn’t like any kids, but especially me.”
“But you’re okay now? I can arrange counseling. Do you want to go home to your father?”
“Our father. And you’re kidding? All he’d do is hire a nanny, and I’d never see him, just like before. No, I do not want to go back. I want to stay here. Everything I want is right here.”
This time it was Lucas who touched him. I smiled. They were very cute together. I think all 12-year-olds are cute, but this was a double dose.
) 0 (
My dad called. “Thanks for taking him in, Clay. Glad that problem is solved. I guess I should have considered François. After all, he knows a few butchers. I found one who said yeah, François had ordered an unsheared whole sheep, and he’d had it gutted and much of the meat removed. Then he had him fill it with Styrofoam peanuts and sew it back up. The thing only weighed about 75 pounds that way. He carried it out of the shop on his shoulder. Never did tell the butcher what it was for. He was thinking it was for some sort of party.”
I remembered that neither Karl nor anyone else had picked the thing up. They’d hired a removal firm, and those guys must not have said a word about it being light.
I asked Dad if Karl was part of the plot, and he said he was pretty sure he wasn’t, that those two had disliked each other for years because each was sure he was the top man on the staff at the house, the most important employee, and the matter had never been settled.
There was a pause in the conversation then. I think we were both remembering what was what between us. Finally, I asked, “You don’t really want Kiki back, do you?”
“Yeah. I miss the bugger.”
“Well, you can’t have him. You’d have to get him extradited because he won’t go back willingly. And I doubt you want to face him in court. He doesn’t speak highly of you. He’s happy here. He’s going to school now; just started. Has a boyfriend. Oh, yeah, you didn’t know. He’s gay.”
That ended that and quickly closed our conversation. Our dad had not changed at all. Kiki was now mine.
I told Kiki. Told him he wasn’t going back, he was mine forever now, and to suck it up.
He laughed, then hugged me. He hugged Julia, too. And I’d swear he had a fixed smile for the rest of the week. In fact, that smile seemed to go on forever.
THE END
Posted 18 February 2026