Damage (11 page)

"What'd you say?" Ray asked after he brought the noise to a low enough level to make conversation.

"Turn it off!"

"No, I like this show," Ray responded, and turned up the volume yet again.

Jake rolled over slowly and tried to sit up, coming to rest at a steep angle. His eyes stayed mostly shut as he rubbed his face and exhaled a great yawn of foul breath into the room. He winced, finally noticing the fresh wound on his thumb. It woke him up enough to cause him to take a good look around and survey his surroundings. The two men stared silently at each other for a moment, then Jake's attention returned to the television.

"Turn it off," he groaned.

Ray obliged. Any sympathy he might have had for his hard luck friend had already been tempered by the broken glass in the kitchen. It evaporated entirely when he saw the mud stains smeared on the sofa from Jake's dirty pants and shoes. Ray shook his head.

"I've been trying to get a hold of you for almost a week," he started. "Where's your phone?"

Jake made like he was searching his coat pockets. "Lost," he said when he came up empty.
 

Ray took out his and dialed Jake's cell number. When he heard the ringing on his end, he held his phone away from his ear and listened for the sound of the other phone. He heard nothing.
 

"I told you, I lost it."

"Yeah, you lost it, all right," Ray said.

"Man, I had some weird dreams," Jake said through another long yawn.

"They must have been about you staying sober, cause I expect that would be a weird dream for you. I doubt you even remember what it feels like."

"It has been a while," Jake chuckled groggily.

"Five days, dickhead," Ray said. "Six now. I've been chasing you down to see if you're still breathing and you can't even bother to answer your phone, or open your front door."

"I... lost... my... phone," Jake said, stressing each word. "And when did you come to the house?"

"A bunch of times," Ray said. "Even last night. I stood there knocking, but I guess you were already out frequenting the finer establishments of Tramway County. What have you been mixing this time? Cocaine and liquor? Heroine and extacy?"

Jake rubbed his eyes and pressed hard against his temples through greasy blond hair. "Just booze, and a little pot."

"There's no such thing as a little with you."
 

"Wait," Jake said, a quizzical expression on his face. "Did I see you last night?"

"Are you even listening to me?" Ray asked, disgusted. "I just told you. I went to your place and you didn't come to the door. You might have seen me if you were peaking out the window trying to avoid me, but I sure as shit didn't see you."

Jake fell silent and stared blankly ahead. His hand lifted quickly to his chest and reached inside his coat, producing a flask-shaped bottle that appeared to contain a small quantity of whiskey or rum. He studied it closely.

"Trying to figure out where you were last night" Ray asked. "You've never been able to before."

But Ray had the impression he was figuring it out. A dawning awareness seemed to break over Jake's face. He nodded slowly and put the bottle down on the wicker coffee table. He turned up his palms to examine them. Ray saw the long cut on his right thumb, but there also were smaller cuts scattered across both hands. Jake picked at one, using his forefinger and thumb like pincers, and removed a minuscule fragment of what looked like glass.

"You and I could be twins," Ray joked, holding out his scratched hands for Jake to see.

A tingling unpleasantness once again spread across Ray's scalp. He looked down at his own hands, scraped and cut from the remnants of broken window panes at the base of the Wallace's house. He thought about the broken drinking glass in the kitchen. It had shattered, yes, but only into a handful of large pieces. A terrible thought crept into his head.

"Where were you last night?" he asked quietly, staring at Jake as though he had never met him before.

"I gotta go," Jake said, standing suddenly and heading for the open front door.

"Jake, wait!"

In seconds, Jake was on the sidewalk running south in the general direction of his house. The fleeting idea of chasing after him crossed Ray's mind. How hard would it be to catch him, he thought, but what would he say once he caught him? How do you politely ask one of your best friends if he's a murderer?

Monday, Part XI

Regardless of the fact he had not actually spoken with Avery Lowson to set a meeting time, Ray couldn't shake the nagging feeling he was running late.
 

He had lingered long after Jake bolted from the apartment, fretting over the many possible unfortunate fates of his friend and contemplating the next proper course of action. He tried, unsuccessfully, to use reason to counter-balance his fear that Jake might have had something to do with the disturbing scene at the Wallace's estate. Their horse farm was at least seven miles from Ray's apartment, easily a two-hour walk for a stumbling drunk.
 

Besides, Jake was an addict and an alcoholic, not a violent offender. There was that one time in college when he set fire to his fraternity's homecoming parade float. And the time he stole a CB radio out of a town grounds and maintenance truck. And he was kicked out of a basketball game for getting into a fist fight with the guy in front of him, and then with the security staff that arrived to break up the fight.

To the best of his knowledge, Jake and the Wallaces didn't even know each other. They certainly didn't move in the same social circles. The Wallaces were rich. Jake regularly had to choose which utility bill he didn't have enough money to cover. They owned horses, a little red sports car, and a five-thousand-square-foot mansion. Jake stole cable from his neighbors and watched it on a television he scammed from the local rental shop. They had everything. Jake had nothing.

In the end, Ray decided to place a call to Billy before heading out for St. Thomas.
 

"Hey, it's Ray," he said after being prompted to leave a message. "Jake was at my place when I got here about a half hour ago. Give me a call when you get this. I need to tell you something, and I need your advice. It's about twelve-thirty now. I'm heading up to St. Thomas to meet with Mrs. Wallace's father. I have no idea how long I'll be there, but I'll have my cell on me in case you call."

Following the same route he had taken on the way to groundbreaking the day before, Ray passed the field he had parked in for the event. A crew of migrant workers was busy dismantling the enormous tent that had housed the celebration. They had a lousy day for it. The temperature hung low in the upper fifties, a pencil gray covering of clouds blocked the sun, and a dreary wind carried spattering gusts of rain through the trees every few minutes. Ray drove with the radio off, his mind racing. He nibbled absentmindedly from a bag of pretzels he picked off the floor of his kitchen before leaving. The drive leading up to the main building at the St. Thomas Retirement Cottages wound gently left, then right, through a neighborhood of neatly groomed lawns bordering apartment windows. It was clear the lawns were backyards only, since no sidewalks or driveways presented themselves and the apartments were not numbered on the outside of the building. Signs guided him to a parking lot outside the administrative center.
 

The aroma of cafeteria cooking clung to the wet wind as it escaped from rooftop vents on the main building ahead of him. A high brick wall lining one side of the path to the main entrance shielded him from much of the blustery weather. Through tinted windows on either side of the doors he could see no sign of life. The cell phone in his pocket vibrated. He ignored it.

The reception desk was not immediately visible upon entering the building. Ray had to walk a short distance and step around a corner to the unmanned station in the spacious, albeit low-ceilinged, lobby. An arsenal of walkers, some basic models and others with baskets and horns like children's tricycles, lined the wall under a regal sign indicating the room beyond was the resident dining hall. Under the sign was taped a piece of paper asking residents to "Kindly Leave Your Walker in the Lobby." The brick interior walls and dark blues and greens of the facility's carpeting were dimly illuminated by the meager light of a cloudy day channeled into the room through skylights. Old-fashioned lamps scattered around the room didn't help much, either. As he drifted through the room taking in his surroundings, a silver haired woman who did not appear old enough to be a resident popped through a door behind the reception desk. Her hair and makeup were impeccably finished, and she wore a tailored pantsuit accentuated by just the right amount of costume jewelry. Ray immediately recognized her from the groundbreaking. She was the older, well-dressed woman who sat silently next to Sheriff Redmond's daughter when the sheriff asked him to take their picture. The woman stopped walking when she noticed Ray.

"Excuse me. Can I help you?"

"Yes," Ray said, stepping toward the reception desk. "I'm here to visit Mr. Avery Lowson."

"Mr. Lowson isn't taking visitors," she said, in a declarative manner that invited no further discussion. She spoke in a crisp, curt tone that carried a mid-western accent.

"Mr. Lowson contacted me this morning and asked me to come out here," Ray explained. "I'm sure..."

"As I said, sir. Mr. Lowson is not taking visitors today." The woman smiled robotically at him, but the look in her eyes showed she was losing patience with him.

Ray's natural good humor had long ago fled to its happy place. His typical response in this type of situation would have been to politely acquiesce, withdraw, and consider options for approaching it from a different angle. He presently had no such inclination.

"And that's it, is it?" he asked. "You don't even want to call his room and ask him?"

This rattled the receptionist. Apparently, she was well accustomed to people following her orders. The thought of a mini revolution of senior citizens wheeling walkers up to the desk like tanks to a barricade and demanding extended hours for mahjong flashed through Ray's mind and made him smile. The receptionist opened and closed her mouth, trying to figure out what to say next. A familiarly unpleasant sing-song voice called from the office behind her.

"Send him in here," it said.

A small sign on the door had only the word "Director" engraved into it. The thick odor of perfume was overpowering. Expensive furnishings and custom shelving along the left wall took up much of the windowless office. The desk, far too large for the space, held only a phone and an unblemished calendar blotter. The mahogany shelves displayed personal bric-a-brac, such as framed photographs and a variety of coffee mugs sporting spiritual sayings. "The Lord is My Shepherd" was the dominant theme. At least two dozen candles of different sizes, undoubtedly the source of the heavy aroma, were scattered throughout the office. The woman seated at the desk was stuffed into a high-collared, fall-themed sweater with sleeves that pinched at her chubby wrists. Excessive blush and eye shadow gave her a comical appearance. Not quite the televangelist's wife, but clearly on her way there. Her teased red hair didn't help.
 

An introduction was not necessary. Ray clearly recalled meeting Mimi McGinnis, daughter of Sheriff Redmond and director of the St. Thomas Retirement Cottages, at the groundbreaking. Without making eye contact, she motioned for Ray to take the only guest chair in the room. He sat, waiting for her to begin the conversation, while she casually opened and closed drawers, shuffling through them in search of something. She turned her back to him, plucked a cell phone out of the purse on the floor behind her, and beeped away at a text message. When finished, she placed the phone on the desk next to the blotter and began searching through the drawers again.

"Is there a point to this, or are you deliberately wasting my time?" Ray asked.

She pretended not to hear him. The phone buzzed. She typed another text in response, slid the phone closed, and placed it back in her purse. It seemed to Ray she had to brace herself with a deep breath before turning to face him.

"Why do you want to see Mr. Lowson?" she asked. Her saccharin voice was higher, more feminine, than he expected it to be.

"I'm sorry," Ray said. "I don't see where that's any of your concern."

"Mr. Lowson is a member of my community and a dear family friend. His daughter and I are practically sisters. Mr. Lowson's health and his mind have been failing him, and now his family has suffered this horrible personal tragedy."

She reached into an open drawer and removed a copy of the day's Citizen Gazette, placing it on the desk close to Ray so he could see the photograph he had taken of the Wallace's house. He wondered if anyone would ever spot Correen Wallace's arm sticking out from under the bushes at the bottom of it. Ray nudged the newspaper in her direction.

"Mr. Lowson sounded clear of mind in the message he left asking me to come here to meet him," Ray said.

"And he may have been, at the time," she said, as if talking to a child. "He is known to experience brief moments of clarity."

"Then maybe he's clear right now," Ray said, mirroring her manner of speech. "How will we know if we don't at least call on him to see?"

Mimi McGinnis fleetingly shot the cell phone on her desk a glance. Her small eyes, rodent-like behind swollen cheeks, narrowed. Her voice became shrill and direct.

"I will not allow you to take advantage of a dying man," she said. "If you do not leave this very minute, I will call the police."

Ray shook his head, lifted himself out of the chair, and walked to the open door. The receptionist, he realized, must have been listening the entire time. She stood in the doorway, arms crosse, chest puffed out like a bouncer at a bar, moving only enough to allow him to squeeze past her. From behind him came the beeping sounds of Mimi McGinnis typing another text message. He poked his head back into the office.

"Tell your daddy I want my camera back," he said.