A Perfect Life (9 page)

CHAPTER 13

When Canon said he was going to the car for a bottle, Scott was sure the old man was cranking his Caddy, retreating down those ruts of heavy slush, and leaving him alone in that horrible house. So he was surprised when Canon stepped back into the foyer holding a fifth of Jack Daniel's.

He motioned to Scott. “Other room. That's turning my stomach in there.”

Scott stood and followed Canon into the little makeshift study. The older man plopped down in the only chair, unscrewed the cap on his bottle, and took a swallow. Then he extended the bottle to Scott.

Scott shook his head. “I'm having enough trouble without that. Probably put me in a coma.”

Canon asked, “What's upstairs?”

“I told you. I've never been inside this house in my life.”

The old man bobbed his head and took another swallow.

Scott pushed his rump up onto the particle-board desk and let his feet dangle. “You reload your gun?”

Canon snorted a kind of brief chuckle. “Bet your ass.”

“Try not to shoot me.”

“Can't promise anything.” The old man took another pull from the bottle, then looked around the room. All he said was “Convince me.”

“That I've never been here before?”

Canon Walker nodded his head, reared back in the chair, and propped a pointy-toed shoe on the edge of the desk.

“Okay.” Scott rubbed his eyes and reached out. “Give me a sip of that.” The bottle was cold. The whisky felt cool on his tongue, warm inside his throat and stomach. “I guess . . . I guess you've got two choices. One, I'm innocent of any of this—the murder or putting up that filth in there. Or two, I'm not only crazy as hell, but I'm going to extraordinary measures to announce that fact to the world.” He paused. “That sound about right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So let's take the last one. Why would I bring you out here to see this? Why would I make up a burglary, smash up all my own stuff, and tell a lie about some unseen burglar admitting to murdering one of my patients?”

“Like you said. Crazy.”

“Okay, why would I faint . . . sorry, pass out when I saw that awful room?”

“Actin'.”

“You really think I was acting, Canon?”

The old man screwed the top on his bottle and set it on the desk. “No. Not makin' much of an argument for your innocence, either, though.” He stood. “Fire up that computer. I wanna see what's on it.”

“Good idea.”

“Yeah. I'm goin' upstairs and look around. See what I can find. And, Doc?”

“Yeah?”

“If you're tellin' the truth, I'd keep a eye and ear peeled for anybody comin' around. We don't wanna get caught flatfooted by whoever put together that picture show in the next room.”

Scott hopped off the desk and walked to the window. Nothing out there but moonlit pastures and charcoal clumps of trees. When he turned back, Canon had disappeared.

He turned his attention to the computer. The front panel showed a DVD player, a CD writer, a floppy drive, two USB ports, and a firewire. He punched the
ON
button and watched the nineteen-inch screen come to life.
Windows XP
. Scott zoned out as the operating system loaded. When the hourglass disappeared from beside the cursor, he clicked on
START
, opened the Control Panel, and clicked
SYSTEM
.

“Oh, shit.”

The screen read:

Registered to: Scott Thomas
Gateway, Inc.
          Intel (R)
Pentium (R) 4 CPU 1.90 Ghz
1.90 GHz
256 MB of RAM

“Shit, shit, shit!”

“What is it?” Canon had quietly returned downstairs and was standing behind him.

“Guess I'm not only a pervert, I'm a stupid pervert to boot.” Scott pointed to his name on the screen.

Walker straightened up. “Already got your picture all over that mess in the living room. Don't see where your name on the computer makes much difference.”

“Depends on what kind of cookies they've been accepting. What kind of security. If they downloaded those pictures off the Internet . . .” His eyes scanned the desktop. Nothing there but Office Suite programs and Internet access. He clicked on
START
again and opened the Programs menu. “Look.”

Canon leaned over the screen. “What the hell am I looking at?”

“A cheap version of Adobe Photoshop, Paint Shop Pro. Three or four other graphics programs.”

“What's that . . .”

“Hang on.” Scott opened Photoshop and hit
OPEN
. The My Pictures window opened. “Oh, shit.”

“What!”

“There are a couple of hundred files here.” He chose one at random and double clicked. The screen filled with a closeup of a gynecologist's work area.

Canon said, “That what I think it is?”

“Can't you tell?”

“Kinda hard to place things with no point of reference like that.”

Scott chose another numbered file at random from the menu. The next screen had a barnyard theme.

“Burn it,” the old man said abruptly. “Burn the whole house down.”

“We can't do that.”

Canon took his hand off the loaded pistol in his pocket and motioned at the house with an empty palm. “What if somebody finds this? You can't explain this shit. You haven't even been able to explain it to me. What you gonna tell the po-lice? Damn. I'm tellin' you, Doc, you gonna give that de-tective in your apartment this afternoon, you gonna give the man a month of wet dreams handin' over sick-ass evidence like this. This ain't no fuckin' movie. You give the cops this kinda evidence, hell, they gonna lock your ass up and throw away the key. Nobody . . . no-damn-body on earth gonna look any farther for who snuffed that poor woman in the hospital if they see this.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You've seen all this. And I guess you believe me. Otherwise, I don't think you'd be telling me to set fire to some stranger's house.”

“Two things.” Canon walked to the window and scanned the pasture outside. “First”—he turned back and tried to smile—“you're forgettin' I can see evil on people.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And, boy—you got about as much evil on you as a new puppy stumblin' around trying to find its momma's tit.”

Scott turned off the computer. “What's second?”

“Second is that it don't benefit me to think you killed that woman. The cops wanna solve this crime. You said . . . What's the woman's name?”

“Patricia Hunter.”

“You said this Hunter woman is rich. Got a big-dog husband. Well, big dog don't matter to me, but you can bet your ass it matters to the po-lice. They'll slap a set of cuffs on you and parade your ass in front of every reporter in town.” He looked out again at the frozen fields. “It ain't my job to talk you into savin' yourself. You wanna call the cops and get 'em out here to look at this, knock yourself out. I'm just sayin', if it was me, I'd set a match to the place.”

“I have a history with fire.”

“Oh.” Canon didn't know what else to say.

“The pictures are here.” Scott waved his hand at the desk. “Inside this computer. Now my fingerprints are all over the place, too.” He paused. “What'd you find upstairs?”

“Nothin'.”

“Nothing important or . . .”

“I mean nothin'. Not a bed. Not a chair or a table.” Canon moved away from the window to stand over Scott. “I'm tellin' you, this whole place doesn't feel right. It's more like a stage that's half ready for a show than a place where somebody lives or works. And I'll tell you somethin' else. I don't think you'd be burnin' down somebody else's house, the way you said.”

“What do you mean? It has to belong to somebody.”

“Got your name on the computer. All those nasty pictures in the other room. We might as well assume there's a lease or a bill of sale somewhere has your name on it. All the rest don't make sense otherwise. The cops discover this place, they got to check on who pays the rent. All the rest don't work if that person ain't you.”

“So you say put a match to the whole house.”

“Nothin' else you can do. You strip out those pictures, bust up this computer, they're just gonna fill it up again. Or set you up somewhere else.”

“But either way—burn it or empty it—and they can still set me up again in another house or apartment.” Canon started to speak, but Scott held up a palm to stop him. “Just a minute. You think it looks like whoever did this isn't through.”

“No way to know for sure. But, yeah, looks that way to me.”

“So that means they're coming back.”

The old man grinned. “Yeah. It does. Doesn't it?”

Scott could feel the haze clearing inside his head. “If you'll take that pistol and stand watch out by the road, I'm going to build a hell of a fire in the fireplace.” He leaned down to pick the CPU up off the floor. Placing it on the desktop, he asked, “You got a knife on you?”

Canon reached into his hip pocket. “Yeah, sure. What you gonna do?”

“Well, after I put a match to those pictures in the living room”—he rested his hand on the computer—“I'm going to come back in here and cut this thing's heart out.”

CHAPTER 14

Kate Billings had turned on the answering machine in case Charles Hunter returned her call. She waited for his voice after the sixth ring, but heard Scott Thomas instead.

“Kate? If you're there, please pick up. I really need to talk to you. Please, pick—”

She grabbed the receiver. “What's wrong?”

“Oh, hi. Sorry to call so late.”

“Don't worry about it. I was just working out.” Lying naked on the bed, Kate allowed her fingers to pause just below the dimple of her navel. She drew soft circles in the beads of perspiration on her stomach.

A soft hum filled her earpiece. Seconds passed before Scott asked, “Is there any way I could come by there tonight and talk with you? I wouldn't ask but . . .”

“Come on.”

“Now?”

“Now.” The timbre of her voice changed. “Where are you calling from?”

Scott looked out at the dark oily pavement separating him from a brightly lit Citgo station. “I'm on a pay phone at a service station. I guess about forty minutes away from the hospital, if that's close to your place.”

“You've never been to my apartment, have you?”

“No. You had me drop you at that coffee shop when we left the blues club on Bleeker. Remember?”

“Right. Well, I'm not far from where you dropped me.” Kate laid out simple, straightforward directions, said, “See you soon,” and hung up.

She strolled across the rug to her mirror, where she paused to study sweat-glistened skin and blood-gorged muscles before continuing on to the bathroom. She had just enough time to shower and pick something interesting to wear before Scott showed up.

Scott dropped the heavy phone into its cradle and popped open the folding glass door. The old Caddy sat between Scott and the light, so that Canon looked flat and black like a carnival silhouette.

Back inside the car, Scott relayed the conversation.

“Just said to come on over?”

Scott studied Canon Walker's impassive features. “Yeah.”

“Thought you were tired.”

Scott bent forward and propped an elbow on each knee. “I'm tired as hell, but I've gotten past the place where I was sleepy. Anyway, I don't see me getting a lot of sleep until I ask Kate why she came to see you today.”

Walker looked straight ahead and dropped the transmission into drive. “Gotta get to bed myself. Got a couple days off before headin' out to Baltimore. Old men can only take so much.”

“Young ones, too.”

“Yeah.” Walker nodded his head. “I guess that's right.”

Kate lived in one of those steep-roofed, white-and-brown apartment complexes that are supposed to look like an alpine village. It seemed like a hip theme in the seventies, and most major cities had half a dozen of the places. The faux-carved sign at the turn-in read
Apres Ski Villas.

Cruising between rows of identical buildings, Scott maneuvered his Land Cruiser through jagged lines of back bumpers. The instructions had been “Two rights, and I'm the third building on the left. Building G. Number 1103.” Scott repeated Kate's apartment number out loud.

He was lost. Every building looked the same. At a dead end, he turned around and started back out. Three minutes later, he was at the entrance again.
Apres Ski Villas
. “Yeah,” he said, “I know.”

The second run-through, Scott found a turn he'd missed before. He parked against a yellow curb next to a building with a giant old-English-looking
G
glued to its side.

Apartment 1103 turned out to be on the second floor. Scott ascended through a center orifice of the building, passed into a long inside hallway, and found the right number on a metal security door.

He knocked. Nothing happened. Scott knocked again. Nothing. It was late. He was tired. He was miserable. He pounded too loudly. A door three apartments down opened about a foot, and a bespectacled male face popped out.

“Can I help you?”

Scott shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“People are trying to sleep.”

“Yeah. Sorry about the noise. I guess she fell asleep.”

The man just kept looking.

It had been a long, hard day. Scott said, “Go away.”

The man snorted, getting ready to say something or other, just as Kate's door opened. He started again. “Everything all right down there?”

Kate ignored her neighbor. Her eyes scanned Scott's face. “I think you better come in before you fall down.”

Her apartment was painted white. The carpeting was pale, the furniture generic. Scott walked to a sofa and plopped down without being asked.

“What happened?” Kate stood before him wrapped in an oversized, terry-cloth bathrobe. Her hair was still moist from the shower. “You look awful.” As she spoke, she dropped to one knee in front of Scott and her robe separated to her hip.

Scott was too tired to notice. “I'm sorry to come by this late.”

“You said that on the phone. It's okay. I like to work out at night. I'd just finished when you called.”

“Good.” He rubbed his eyes and thought about how to start. “Canon Walker told me you came to his hotel today.”

Kate studied Scott's face. “Do you want some coffee or something?”

“I was wondering why you'd do that.”

“Talk to Mr. Walker about your problems?”

“Right.”

She rose to her feet, then sat sideways on the sofa next to Scott and tucked her feet underneath her. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“I'm not upset. At least, I'm not upset about anything you've done. I just don't understand why you did it. I mean, going to an old man I barely know—somebody who isn't a lawyer, who's basically just passing through—and asking him to help me with a legal problem . . . It doesn't make sense.”

“I don't know.”

“Well, you must have had some reason . . .”

Kate gently laid her hand on Scott's arm. “I was going to say that, although I'm not completely sure why I chose Mr. Walker, I guess I just thought you needed some help.” She paused. “Help, I guess, from someone who has nothing to do with the hospital.”

Scott turned to look at the blank screen of Kate's television. “Dr. Reynolds was helpful. There wasn't that much he could do. He's as disturbed by Patricia Hunter's murder as the rest of us. But he stepped in and tried to run interference for me.”

“Maybe.” Kate slid her hand up Scott's arm and began to massage his shoulder. A sprinkling of chills scattered across his neck as pockets of tension dissolved. “And just maybe the hospital's going to look after
itself.
When you spoke with Dr. Reynolds, the hospital lawyers hadn't gotten involved. Patricia Hunter was a rich woman, and her husband, from what I hear, has a lot of pull.” Her fingers moved up to massage Scott's neck at the base of his skull. “Anyway, like I said, I'm not sure why I went to Canon Walker. I guess I thought he was a better friend of yours than he is.”

Scott leaned forward. Kate's answers weren't helping much, but her fingers were. He almost asked about the watcher—the young man with the plastic face—but changed his mind.

Scott tried to smile. “I guess I'm also asking why you're trying to help me. We had one date. You hated the music, and I took you home early.”

“I didn't hate you. I wanted you to ask me out again.”

“Well”—Scott slid forward on the sofa, preparing to stand—“that's really all I wanted to know. You were nice to let me come over. I guess I better—”

She smiled and shook her head. “You're not going anywhere. You're about to pass out sitting there talking to me. I'm not about to let you get in a car and drive home like this. How long has it been since you slept?”

Scott tried to smile. “I had . . .” He struggled to process the numbers. “I, uh, slept two or three hours last night. That's . . .” His mind fuzzed.

“It's two in the morning now.” She did the math. “
If
you got a good night's sleep two nights ago, then you've still only had three hours sleep in the past forty-three hours. For God's sake, you're slurring your words, Scott. Like I said, you have no business trying to drive. You can stay here tonight, and we'll talk more in the morning.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I think I've got a new toothbrush you can use. I don't know what we're going to do about pajamas.” She grabbed Scott's hand and pulled him to his feet. “Are you a boxers or briefs man? There's not much difference in boxers and short pajamas when you get right down to it, so that'd be fine. Don't think I could handle the tighty-whiteys thing, though.” She smiled. “I'd never be able to look at you the same way again.” As Kate talked, she led Scott through her bedroom and into the bath, where she retrieved a new toothbrush from the cabinet and placed it in his hand. “I've only got one bed. But it's a queen size, so we can remain chaste.”

Scott looked in the mirror at a slack, puffy face. “I can sleep on the sofa. Right now, I'm so tired I could probably sleep on your coffee table.”

“That's ridiculous. We're both grown-ups, and you're too exhausted to be dangerous. I'm being nice here. Shut up and let me do it.”

Scott pressed his lips together and smiled.

“Good.” She pointed at the sink. “When you're done here, you can get undressed in the bedroom. Just put your clothes on the yellow chair in there. And don't worry. I've actually seen a man in his boxers before.” As she turned to leave, she added, “I've gotta go double lock the door and shut off lights. I like the side of the bed next to the alarm clock.” And she was gone.

Scott turned on the hot water and held his fingers under the stream until steam billowed up out of the basin. He twisted the cold water handle to bring the water from steaming to warm. Cupping his hands under the running water, he washed and rubbed at his face with handful after handful of warm water. It was something his father had taught him as a little kid. The warmth always seemed to calm and center his thoughts without jolting him awake.

Back out in the bedroom, he was alone as he stripped down to boxers and tossed his clothes over a yellow, overstuffed chair. Scott was at ease with his body the way men are who've spent half their lives in locker rooms.

He had just flipped back the covers on the right side of the bed when he heard Kate talking. At first, he thought someone else had come to the apartment. For some reason he didn't fully understand, Scott tiptoed across the room and pressed his ear to the closed door. Kate's was the only voice. It had the volume and cadence of someone speaking on the phone.

As Scott turned to walk away, he heard his name. He leaned back against the door to hear more, but the conversation was over. He walked to the bed and slipped inside cool crisp sheets.

His own place was usually clean, but it was guy clean. He picked up newspapers, threw out pizza boxes, and visited the Laundromat every couple of weeks. He had a bottle of spray cleaner and a broom. Anything else he considered evidence of OCD. But
this
was nice. The sheets and pillowcases were pressed. They had sharp creases ironed into them, for God's sake. The place even smelled clean. No sickening floral scent, no baskets of potpourri everywhere you looked; the whole apartment was just unbelievably, preternaturally
clean
.

He heard Kate step into the bedroom and close the door behind her. “Find everything you need?”

“A sink and a toothbrush was pretty much it.”

“Good. Flip on the bedside lamp.”

Scott rolled across Kate's side of the bed and stretched to click the light on. When he did, Kate killed the overhead light and walked to her dresser. He watched as she opened the top drawer and pulled out a large red T-shirt. Keeping her back to the bed, Kate pulled off her bathrobe, carefully folded it in half, and placed it on the seat of a small stool. She wore blue panties and no bra, and she had a beautiful back.

Kate put her hands inside the shirt and raised her arms to pull it over her head. Scott could see the perfect roundness of her left breast—that teasing view from behind a woman that she never sees and that every man knows. He closed his eyes and turned away. He needed sleep, and staring at Kate Billings's curves was no way to get it.

He felt the bed move as Kate slid under the covers and turned off the lamp.

Sleep was already pouring over him like a warm bath, but, as he drifted off, a question prickled the back of his mind and tugged him back. He turned and looked up at the dark ceiling. “Kate?”

“Yes?”

“There's a, uh, patient I promised to keep tabs on for the family. A Mrs. Winton.”

“Paranoid schizophrenic. Cooked her kid's cat for lunch.”

“God.” He paused to order thoughts that seemed to flit in every direction, like a flock of canaries tossed in the air. “Do me a favor. Tell Dr. Reynolds that I promised to keep the family informed, but with everything that's going on . . . Anyway, tell him there's a little girl who's going to need to talk with someone . . .”

“I thought you were tired.”

“Can you take care of that for me? Tell him I'll speak with him about it as soon as I can.”

“Not a problem.”

Scott lay still, listening to the soft rush of Kate's breathing. “Can I ask you something?”

“Nope. You can sleep in my bed with me, but asking a question is way over the line.”

Scott smiled in the darkness. “I was just wondering about something. The other nurses at the hospital wear blue and green uniforms. Some have designs on them. This is weird, but I was wondering . . .”

She quietly interrupted. “Why I always wear white?”

“Right.” Seconds floated by. He felt the nearby warmth of her back beneath the covers. He felt the rhythm of her breathing. “I guess you just like white.”

Silence settled over the darkened room. Kate fluffed her pillow. “Good night, Scott.”

He pulled the blanket under his chin and felt his aching body begin its plunge into unconsciousness. Scott said, “Good night, Kate”—and he was gone.

Sharp-edged flames roared against the night, stabbing at the house, carving it into irregular blackened chunks. Scott saw fleeting human shadows at the windows. He tried to call out from the yard; he tried to stand, to run for help. Words choked to nothing deep inside his throat; his legs turned dead beneath him. The ground began to sway and swirl, and suddenly he was inside a long hospital corridor. Summoning all his strength, Scott called out for his father.