The sun had gone down by the time he headed for his car. The lights inside the guesthouse were now on. Maybe Prince Charming was spending the night. Roman shifted gears and roared up the driveway. Rocks flew from beneath his tires as he pulled onto the canyon road.
It didn’t take long to reach his first destination—a supermarket parking lot. Shrugging into his backpack, he limped toward a bus stop. He had the feeling someone was watching him. Just nerves. The bus arrived. He took a seat in the back, emotions churning, trying to think about something other than Grace in the arms of another man. His calf hurt, and he stretched out his leg. It took thirty minutes to get to his second destination. He winced as he went down the steps. The bus pulled away. He crossed the street and started walking. A few blocks, that’s all, but every step shot pain up and down his leg.
He should’ve brought his cane. After a block, he was sweating. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. He sat at a bus stop. When one came, the doors swishing open, Roman waved it on. He couldn’t sit here all night.
Gritting his teeth, he stood and kept going.
The tunnel was deserted. Most avoided pedestrian tunnels after dark. Sometimes the homeless used them for shelter. This one was vacant and cleaner than most. Roman slipped off the backpack and pulled out his supplies. He put on the red hard hat, pressed the lamp light, and went to work. The scent of Krylon filled the tunnel, the only sound, the hiss of spray paint. He had flashbacks of hell and worked faster. Anyone who walked through here would see creatures glaring at them from both sides and above. He finished one, then another farther down. He planned six in all. Flames around the end of the tunnel would complete the work.
He thought he heard footsteps and froze, a can of spray paint in his hand. A late-night pedestrian? Homeless person looking for a place to spend the night? Quickening his pace, he pulled another can of paint out of his backpack, then another, shifting from hot red to orange and licks of yellow, lines of black. Tossing the cans into his backpack, he took off the hard hat and shoved it in. He zipped the pack closed and straightened. A man stood midway in the tunnel, watching him. Roman’s pulse shot up. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.” The voice was deep. “I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw Roman Velasco get out of a car at the supermarket. I’ve had my suspicions about you. We met once, at the gallery in Laguna Beach. I doubt you remember.”
Roman didn’t, but he knew who the man was.
Roman limped toward him, the backpack held tightly in one hand. He could use it as a weapon. “You’re the cop who was asking questions.”
“The flock of blackbirds you painted gave you away. My wife keeps an eye on what’s happening in the local art world, and she’s been interested in you. She’s the one who received the brochure from the gallery in Laguna Beach. The minute I saw that painting, I knew I had you.”
“Is that so?”
“Think you can get past me? Outrun me? I don’t think so. Not with an injured leg.”
The man stood taller than Roman, with broader shoulders. He’d know how to block a blow and take a man down.
Roman knew he was facing jail time. Assaulting a cop would just add more. “Okay.” He shouldered the backpack. He’d pushed his luck for years. Tonight, it had run out. “Let’s go.” He could imagine the headlines. He could imagine Grace’s shock and disappointment, and Jasper’s and the Mastersons’. What would they think of him? Part of him was relieved it was over. The other part wanted to run. Problem was, he couldn’t run fast enough.
The cop stood aside. They didn’t speak as they walked. “LAPD has a file on your work. I’ve done some digging on Roman Velasco. Not your real name.” He knew about Bobby Ray Dean. He knew about Sheila Dean and how she died. He even knew a few details about Roman’s European activities. “You’ve been building a reputation for yourself.”
Roman tripped and uttered a soft curse as pain shot up his leg. He stopped and bent over to rub his knotted calf.
“Have you had your leg checked out?”
“Yeah. It’s not going away.”
“Got your wings clipped. Surprised me when you picked a tunnel. You’ve always liked heaven spots. Is that how you injured yourself?”
“No.” Roman glanced at him, curious. “What do you know about heaven spots?”
“Did a little graffiti in my time. Not like yours. Bubble letters. Sloppy. Pointless.” He laughed low. “You’re something of a legend, you know?”
“I get buffed just like everyone else.”
“That last piece, across from the bank. It’s still there.” He chuckled. “I dropped in at the restaurant in that building, asked about it. The proprietor takes great pride in having the Bird’s work on his wall.”
Roman felt a flicker of pride and then the heavy weight of regret that he hadn’t quit before ruining everything he’d hoped to gain. “You’ll get a lot of street cred for netting the Bird.”
“I’ve thought about that many times.”
The squad car came into view, parked at the curb. At least the cop hadn’t cuffed him. Roman thought about running again. But where would he go? The officer knew who he was, where he lived. Roman opened the door, tossed his pack onto the seat, and slid in. Leaning his head back, he uttered a soft curse. He had only himself to blame. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain in his leg to ease.
It wasn’t the long drive Roman expected. The cop pulled into the supermarket parking lot and stopped next to Roman’s car. Roman stared at him in the rearview mirror. The cop smiled slightly.
“I was off duty. Was picking up a few things on the way home.” He turned and looked at Roman. “The Bird is done flying, isn’t he?”
Roman had forgotten to sign the piece in the tunnel. He wouldn’t be going back to lay claim to it. “Yeah. He’s done.”
“Have a good night, Mr. Dean.” He got out and opened the door for Roman.
“Thanks.” Roman grasped his backpack and slid out. The police car pulled away.
Another second chance.
Grace had been nervous since Brian called, asking if he could bring takeout for dinner so they could talk. Did he want their relationship to become more serious? Her friends thought he was the perfect man for her. And Brian did have all the character attributes she wanted. He was a man of faith, kind, considerate, employed. She’d never felt the flutter of physical attraction, but as Brian had pointed out, friendship was a good foundation for marriage.
Brian had arrived early and waited on the back patio. He stood and kissed her cheek before retrieving a brown paper bag from his car. “Italian.” He held up the bag. “I went to Trattoria. Fettuccine Alfredo, tossed salad, garlic bread, and tiramisu for dessert.” They’d had dinner at the small restaurant the week before she and Roman went on the road. How sweet that Brian remembered what she’d ordered. More desirable attributes. Brian was thoughtful and had a memory for details. Patrick would’ve bought Thai food on her credit card.
Brian followed her inside the cottage. He seemed pensive. “How’s Roman doing?”
Why did Brian have to bring him up? She was trying hard not to think about the man who lived right next door. “He’s not sleeping, and he doesn’t know what to paint.” She found herself talking about the back wall in the studio. “I don’t know what he paints, but he seems to use that space to get rid of frustration.” Brian said he probably had a lot of things to process after what he’d been through. Grace’s thoughts kept circling Roman. “He went to church with me. He’d never been in a church. He looked so uncomfortable, like he was on another planet.”
Brian chuckled. “Well, Scripture does say we’re not of this world, and Jesus had to smuggle in the Kingdom of Heaven down here.”
They talked about the youth group and how some teens who’d never been introduced to church found it a strange environment, too. That’s why Brian went to them first, so when they did come into a service, they had an idea what to expect. “They’re more comfortable in a converted supermarket than the traditional church.” The group was growing faster than Brian had anticipated. He was teaching the book of Mark.