Angelians

Chapter 1

The soul-shredding panic slammed into Luis Varga as if some malignant creature was clawing its way into his chest. His violently pounding heart threatened to rip itself from its moorings. His breath escaped him. He lurched to his feet, knocking back his chair in the coffee shop, gripping the table for support, his whole body shaking. The clatter caused the other customers to stare in shocked silence at him. They saw a dark-haired, fine-featured young man, but whose sweat-sheened face showed the trauma of past violence. That trauma was written by a pale scar over his left eye, and another long scar cutting through the stubble on his right cheek.

He stared wide-eyed, slack-jawed, at the person who had triggered his paralyzing fear. The hulking man had a long, thick salt-and-pepper beard and slicked-back thatch of gray hair. He wore baggy shorts revealing thick legs, his feet planted firmly apart, shod with black sneakers. He had muscular arms that jutted from a white t-shirt stretched taut across a barrel chest.

Luis could not understand the panic that had engulfed him at the sight of the man. The man was not threatening him; merely standing quietly in line, his head down, jabbing at his cell phone with hands that dwarfed it, waiting to give his coffee order to the barista.

But still, Luis had to escape the man! He had to get away! Abandoning his laptop, his satchel, and his coffee, he bolted from the corner coffee shop into one of the streets it was on, stumbling away down the sidewalk, praying that putting distance between him and the man would somehow alleviate the horror that gnawed away at him.

A block away, he slumped against the chain link fence beside a laundromat, his legs giving way, sinking to the gum-splotched sidewalk. He gasped for air, aware that he was hyperventilating but unable to stop.

For long minutes, he sat trying to recover, but finally resigned himself to the unrelenting suffering of panic. His hand vibrated, and at first, he paid it no mind, not grasping its significance. Then he realized what it was. Out of habit, he had continued to clutch his cell phone, which he had in his hand at the beginning of his ordeal. Now it was signaling a call.

Thankful for the small measure of relief that a phone call would bring, he touched the screen to answer with a mumbled “Hello.”

“Hi,” said the cheerful voice of his fiancée, Jodi. “I’m in clinic all day, maybe until late. Could you maybe pick up dinner? The sushi place maybe? You could get me sashimi.” He loved her voice. It was soft and lyrical, reassuring him any time he heard it. He needed that now.

“Something happened,” he said, not able to say more.

“What? Sweetie, are you alright?” Her tone darkened to one of concern.

“No, I’m not. Something happened. I saw somebody,” he replied in a smooth Spanish accent.

“I don’t understand. You saw who?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he had something to do with . . .” he stopped. He could not finish the sentence.

“You sound scared.”

“I . . . yeah . . . I freaked.” Saying the slang word made him feel a little better. After all, “freaking” was not as bad as what he had felt.

“Where are you?”

“Um . . .” He had to look around to remember where he was. “Santa Monica.”

“What are you doing way out there?”

“I made a contact on the construction scam story. I interviewed the contact, and I stopped at a coffee shop to take some notes. This guy was there.”

“What guy?”

The fear began to rise in his gut again. “I don’t know. I must know him.”

Her voice took on an imperative tone. Now she was in doctor mode. “Come back here. Come to the clinic. I think you should see Doctor Heinrich.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Maybe he could help you make sense of it. Maybe you’re remembering something.”

The word “remembering” did trigger memories, but not of the threatening man. Of waking up in a hospital bed, his bones broken, his body covered with purple bruises, his face an unrecognizable swollen mass. He remembered the vicious headaches relieved only by heavy doses of drugs. But he did not remember the attack that had caused the injuries. Did not remember what he had been working on as an investigative reporter that might have prompted an attack.

“Do you need help? Do you need me to come?” she asked. Her voice softened to the soothing tone of the woman who loved him. It worked. Her natural serenity calmed his fear. He let his memory of her warmth, of his love for her, begin to evaporate the fear.

He took a deep breath. “No. I’ve got this. I’ll be okay. See you soon. I love you.” He ended the call, took another deep, cleansing breath, and resolved that he would not let his fear win. “No! No, goddammit!” he declared.

His outburst startled a passing elderly woman grasping a shopping bag, who hurried past the crouched, demented man.

He pulled himself to his feet, looking back down the street toward the coffee shop. Even given that the hulking man had triggered an unreasoning fear, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t overcome that fear and find out who this man was. He decided catching the man on the street was the best strategy, so he walked back toward the coffee shop, intently watching the entrance.

He realized he had no weapon, should the confrontation turn violent. So, he pulled out his keys, clutching them so their points jutted from between his fingers.

He waited for fifteen minutes, but the man never came out. He must still be in the shop, thought Luis. He would re-enter the shop, spot the man, and follow him out.

But when he went back in, the man was gone. “Damnit!” he muttered. He must have exited onto the other street. He dashed out that entrance, scanning the block, but didn’t see the man.

He decided that this would by no means be the end of this quest. He would come back, and at the same time every day, assuming that the man was a creature of habit. He would find the man, and he would confront him.

So, he retrieved his things, took them down the street to his white Camry, and drove away. He needed to talk out this event. He needed to find out what Dr. Heinrich thought about it. He needed to go to the Hunter Institute for Neuroscience.

#

“Are you willing to relive it again?” asked Dr. Wilhelm Heinrich.

“I think so. Yeah, I’ll try,” said Luis.

The elderly, balding psychiatrist smiled reassuringly, his knees crossed, slouching comfortably in his armchair. To Luis, that casual posture, and the signature brown sweater vest, and the too-narrow tie, were just other signs of Dr. Heinrich’s comforting presence. Over the past year, the amiable psychiatrist had led him through his devastating trauma and brought him out the other side. Today might bring even more progress toward remembering.

 “Good, and remember you are safe. So, what was it about the man that frightened you?”

Luis paused, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Seeing him brought back something bad. Maybe a memory?”

“Did he just remind you of someone, or was he himself that someone?”

Luis nodded slowly, as if the act would dredge up a memory. He leaned forward on the couch. He turned his head and stared out the large window in Heinrich’s office, centering himself with the view of the saltwater pond, ringed with rich, green tropical foliage, outside the Institute.

He suddenly sat up straight. “It was him!” he exclaimed. “Okay, I can remember. It was him!”

“Good, good,” said Heinrich, picking up his glasses and his tablet computer and typing in a note. “Now, don’t push yourself. Just relax and let a memory come, if there is one.”

Luis clenched his fists. “I remember he had a . . .”

“Had a what?”

“He had a . . . one of those . . . sticks. Like cops have. A stick that extends out.”

“Again relax, Luis. Let the memory come. This is good. This is a memory recovered. This is progress!”

“He beat me! The man beat me, and he grunted when he beat me!”

“He grunted? Did he say anything?”

Luis shook his head slowly. “I don’t remember him saying anything. But I remember pain. Terrible pain.”

“Do you remember when you first saw him?”

After a long pause, Luis said slowly and deliberately, “Yes! Now I remember opening the door to my apartment. He was standing there. I remember he was so big, he filled the doorway. He shoved me back, and I fell. He came in.”

Memories of that moment were forming like figures emerging from a thick, gray fog. Luis continued. “There was somebody else with him. Somebody smaller. Behind him.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man. But he stayed back. The man I saw in the coffee shop tied my hands. I remember the zip ties biting into my wrists. The other one asked a question.”

“What question?”

“I don’t remember. But then came the pain.”

“You realize that question could be the key to why they attacked you.”

“I just don’t remember.” Now his breath came faster. “But what I do know is that the only way to find out is to find him!”

Luis stood to leave, grabbing his satchel.

Heinrich stood and raised his hands, palms down in placation. “Luis . . . now Luis . . . you need to really think through what you’re doing. You need to let yourself recover from this encounter, from the shock. To process it. You need to make sure you are really remembering.”

“I am remembering. This man is a key. I know it! I need to find him!” He needed to see Jodi, to tell her of the encounter and the memories it had triggered. He was sure that she would, as usual, offer some calming insight.

He thanked Dr. Heinrich as he had done so many times before. He left the office, walking down the broad, busy corridor of the behavioral science building.

He took the elevator down to the soaring atrium lobby of the building. It featured, as did all the Institute buildings, one wall that was a saltwater aquarium, the profusion of colorful tropical fish gliding among a coral seascape. The multi-billionaire Hunter family that founded the Institute were believers in the therapeutic effects of water, and the Institute’s architecture reflected that belief.

He emerged from the building to a view of the other towers gleaming in the sun. The behavioral science building was one of four towering, glass-clad buildings of the Hunter Institute facility in Los Angeles—the flagship facility of the global Institute.

Beyond them was a panoramic view of the ocean, far below the bluff on which the Institute was sited. The campus had been built on a former golf course, purchased from its bankrupt owner. It took up only a portion of the 300 acres, the rest deeded to the city as a nature preserve, much to the delight of Los Angelenos.

He took the covered walkway to the clinic building, passing the intersection with walkways that led to the towers of the administration and research buildings.

He passed another walkway that led to the Institute’s aquatic center, again a reflection of the Hunter family’s adherence to a belief in water therapy. Indeed, he had found peace swimming in one of the four huge ocean-fed saltwater pools during his recovery—as did other patients, their family and the Institute’s staff.

He entered the soaring lobby of the clinic building, its wall-sized aquarium alive with delicate, shimmering jellyfish, gently wafting through the water. As was so often the case, several staff stood before the aquarium peering intently at the sight. He was constantly amused at how many staff would pause before the aquariums, seemingly newly mesmerized by a sight they saw every day.

He took the elevator to the neurology clinic floor, emerging into the brightly painted halls, whose wall mural depicted sunny scenes meant to convey healing and happiness. They showed children playing in the water at the beach; adults lounging happily on picnic blankets at a lake; smiling elders sailing boats. All the scenes promised a happy future for the patients who had undergone the neuro-regeneration therapy that had made the Institute a world-renowned clinical leader, with hospitals and research laboratories worldwide.

 Luis asked at the nurse’ station for Jodi and was told she was seeing a patient. He decided he had time to look in on one of the many patients and their families he had befriended as a volunteer. It was a mission he had set for himself after his recovery; to help others as he had been helped.

The teen Andreas lay quietly in the hospital bed, his head swathed in bandages, his arm connected to an IV, his chest to monitors. Beside him rested a video game controller, but it lay untouched. His mother and father sat beside his bed, their expressions strained. They saw Luis and smiled brightly.

“You’re not getting rid of me soon,” said Luis, grinning back. They stood, and he hugged Marina the mother, and shook the hand of Otto, the father. Luis quickly turned his attention to Andreas.

“So, what’s up, dude? You doin’ okay?

Andreas smiled wanly, wincing. “Yeah. My head hurts.”

“Yeah, mine did, too. That’s just your noggin healing up. It helps if you just think about good stuff, like the desserts that you tell your folks you need to help you get better. We’re talking cakes, pies, right?”

Andreas’ smile grew broader, and he looked expectantly at his parents.

Marina made a mock stern face, declaring, “Yes, he is getting desserts, but only if he eats healthy food.”

“Absolutely,” said Luis. “That’s how I got better. Lots of broccoli!”

Now Andreas laughed and made a mock disgusted face.

“Okay, okay, just the right amount of broccoli to get healthy,” Luis said waving his hands in surrender.

After spending time cheering Andreas, the parents asked Luis into the hall, the shadow of worry on their faces.

“He still doesn’t remember us,” said Otto. “He remembers nothing of his life with us.”

“He had a very, very bad fall,” said Luis. “It was a tall building he fell from. I’m told that sometimes there is total memory loss. But it can get better. I know I’m recovering from my partial memory loss. You just keep telling him about his life and showing him pictures. And loving him. My mother in Colombia always says, ‘El amor es la medicina más ponderosa.’ Love is the most powerful medicine.”

Behind him, Luis heard a soft voice say, “That is a very good prescription, and I totally concur with my fiancée.”

He turned to see Jodi in her crisp, white coat, stethoscope around her neck, wearing her confident, reassuring clinical expression. He wondered, as he often did, how he deserved such a woman. She was Chief of Neurology. And she was also profoundly beautiful, with dark, almond eyes, a lovely oval face with full lips, a delicate straight nose, and lustrous dark hair.

“Hi,” he managed to say.

“So, sir.” she replied with mock officiousness. “If you are done prescribing, do you mind if I see my patient?” She emphasized the question with the eloquent gestures that had so often amused him. He had joked that the expressive flips of her small hands were a legacy of her Italian heritage.

“Don’t mind at all. You’ll find that he’s doing great.”

“I’m sure he is.” She smiled at Andreas and patted his hand.

Luis turned to Marina and Otto. “Remember my slogan?”

They both smiled, saying in unison, “’Anytime, anywhere, anything.’ Thank you!”

“You’re very welcome.” He hugged both parents, and gave Andreas a fist bump.

Jodi greeted the boy with a cheery “Howdy!” Then, she said over her shoulder to Luis, “See you down there.”

Luis knew that was his cue to head toward the cafeteria, where he was to meet her. He stopped off at the nurses’ station to find out whether other patients might need the counsel of someone who had suffered brain trauma as he had. Getting information on some new candidates, he continued on.

The lunchroom was a modern, light-filled space, its glass walls looking out over a lush garden. It offered a rich menu from hot comfort food, to thick sandwiches, to Chinese noodle dishes. The tables were populated by both doctors and patients, as the Institute’s founders had specified. The shared dining space gave doctors a connection with their patients and their families. And it gave the patients a sense of their physicians’ total dedication to their care.

Luis chose a pasta carbonara and sparkling water, and found a table where he could see Jodi come from the checkout kiosk. She arrived after fifteen minutes with a sandwich and lemonade, gave him a warm kiss, and settled in across from him. She smiled at a colleague who passed, reminding Luis of the warmth of that smile and the characteristic small, pale spot on her front tooth from the fluoridation of the water where she had grown up. Her smile was always a sunny event.

“You’re okay?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

“Yeah, I’m getting over the . . . encounter. I’m really sorry if I scared you.”

“You’re sorry you scared me?” she chuckled. “Sweetie, you were freaked. Did Dr. Heinrich help?”

“He did. He calmed me down. I remembered some things. And I made a decision.”

“Which is?”

“I’m going back to find the guy. He’s got answers. After all, I’m just about sure he was the one who beat me.”

“’Just about’ sure? So, you’re going to track this guy down based on a feeling, and confront him? You need to let yourself recover from this encounter, from the shock. To process it. You need to make sure you are really remembering.”

Luis stopped, holding a forkful of pasta in midair, his expression puzzled. “Did you talk to Heinrich?”

“No, of course not.”

“He said the same thing.”

“Great minds.” She took a bite of sandwich and cocked her head dismissively.

“I mean he used exactly those words. Verbatim.”

“A coincidence. I would never breach confidentiality,” she said emphatically. “Besides, I’ve been seeing patients all day. When would I talk to him, even if I wanted to? Look, just don’t try anything until you talk to him again . . . and talk to me.”

She reached over and placed her hand on his. The effect was to convince him that, as usual, she was giving good advice. But a sliver of suspicion remained. For the rest of the lunch, they pointedly made their conversation more routine, about plans for weekend adventures, their friends’ doings. Their talk became a comforting balm that made him ready for his next appointment, to talk to his editor.

#

“Oh, hell no!” exclaimed Barton Glaser, leaning over his desk and glaring at Luis. The pudgy editor of the LA Gazette poked a fat finger at Luis in emphasis. “I gave you this new assignment to get you back in the game. And because you’re my best investigative reporter. You will not go back and revisit whatever the hell story it was that almost got you killed!”

They sat in Glaser’s glass-walled office at the newspaper, beyond which was arrayed an unruly collection of newsroom desks overflowing with stacks of paper and books, and populated by reporters peering at monitors or huddling in conversation.

“But this guy knows something,” said Luis. “And, Bart, it must have been a big story if people came after me because of it.”

“Shit-damn-fuck!” spat Glaser. “And it could get you killed! Not almost killed like last time. May I remind you, Mr. Varga, that it was just this goddamned obstinacy that made you end up here with us . . . that got you chased out of Colombia by the cartels.”

“Yeah, okay,” was all Luis could manage. It brought a memory of the Colombian narco with the machine pistol who had pinned him in the alley in Bogotá and warned him his choice was a plane flight or a bullet. The thug told him the patrón del cartel preferred not to attract the attention of the Policía Nacional by killing a reporter. And since his Uncle Phillippe was the local police commander, that attention would be intense and devastating for business. And most importantly, he remembered the narco saying that if he left, his family would be safe.

He left. His multiple journalism awards landed him the job at the Gazette and gave the newspaper a valuable link to the Hispanic community.

Glaser leaned back, running his fingers through his salt-and-pepper pompadour, lowering the temperature of the conversation. “Okay, what’s going on with the construction scam story?”

Luis let the temperature remain lower. “I got a source, a guy who was fired because he wouldn’t go along. He would only talk on deep background, but he told me where I could find financial records that showed overpayment on the Van Ness project.”

“Good, good. What’s your time line for copy?”

“Another few weeks, and I should have it nailed down.”

“Okay, okay, let’s also keep you busy on other stuff. Go see Harry. See if he’s got stories that could do with your talents.”

Glaser put on his reading glasses and gave Luis a pointed glare over them that told him that the editor was issuing a command, not a suggestion.

Luis nodded and left the office, threading his way among the desks to his own cluttered nook. He would go see Harry the managing editor. And he would agree to take on whatever stories he was assigned. But his top priority would still be getting back to the coffee shop along Santa Monica Boulevard, where he would begin his search for the man whom he was now sure was the one who had almost killed him.

#

“Step away from the microwave,” commanded Luis with mock officiousness.

Jodi flipped back her long, dark hair, now down from the professional-image updo she wore in the clinic. She smiled, her dark eyes crinkling in amusement. She put up her hands in surrender and stepped away from the microwave, allowing Luis to open the door and put in the container of takeout curry.

“Not fair,” she complained. “The microwave never—”

“Not taking chances,” he said touching the keypad to trigger the oven whining to life. “You were on your computer when it glitched. And you just walked by the thermostat, and we almost got roasted. Cariño mío, you just have that aura that puts a spell on electronics.”

He hugged her, pulling her away from the oven, giving her a long kiss. He remembered with amusement the first time they ever kissed. A sharp spark of static electricity had arced between their lips, making them both jerk and laugh. Since then, he had teased her about being an electrical dynamo.

She extricated herself from the hug and declared, “Okay, since you’ve taken over the microwave, you can heat the rest of the dinner. I’ll set the table.”

Shortly, they sat sipping wine and eating at the small dining table on the terrace of her condo. It had a panoramic view of the lights of Los Angeles, and their conversation was over the steady drone of traffic that filtered up from below. As they ate the curry, chicken tikka masala, and garlic naan, she asked about his assignment.

“Going well,” he said between bites. “I’ve got one source, and he put me onto another. And I’ve learned my lesson.”

He paused and his expression darkened. He remembered with deep regret how the notes and research on the story that almost got him killed were now entombed inaccessibly in the digital cloud. The attack had erased his memory of the data storage platform or his login name or password. And he had foolishly neglected to use a password manager that would have stored them. The attackers had taken his laptop, so his locally stored data was also gone.

“What do you mean ‘learned your lesson’?” she asked.

“I’ve given Bart all my new login information. So, if anything ever happens, he’ll know what I was doing.”

“So, where are you on the piece?”

“I’ll start writing next week. Still got to get to another source.”

“Don’t forget tomorrow, and the next day. My folks are driving me crazy about meeting you in person.”

He raised his wine glass. “Your parents are my number one priority.”

“We’ll have dinner tomorrow night and spend the day working on the wedding plans. You’ll like Mom and Dad. Mom’s a dervish, but Dad manages to keep up with her”

“Yeah, I could tell on the Zoom calls. Hope they like me in person.”

They finished dinner, and did some reading in the living room until late, when Jodi pointedly yawned, gave Luis a lubricious kiss, and said “Sack time? A little good-night messing around?”

He nodded. “Absolutely! Give me a few minutes.”

“Yeah, only a few minutes.” She headed upstairs to the bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse as she went.

After she left, Luis opened his laptop and accessed Google Maps. He couldn’t start his search for the man for a couple of days, but he wanted to get the area in his head. He brought up a street view of the coffee shop on Santa Monica Boulevard and explored the area virtually. It was jammed with apartment complexes. Finding the guy would normally have been a fool’s errand. But he was a fool with a plan.