Fixed in Fear (17 page)

“This is from that fellow I met,” Allie told her. “He owns a coffee shop I stopped in this afternoon. He is such a dear. And so eager to tell this newcomer to his city all the spots I needed to visit.” Her smile lingered. “It didn't take much to convince him the first spot this lonely visitor needed to see was his home. And, like I said, one thing led to another. His lovemaking left something to be desired by way of technique, but still…he seemed so genuine and was sweet afterward. Promised to buy breakfast if I stayed the night. But, of course, I needed to come see you. So I tucked him in, kissed that adorable mop of hair, and left him to dream of me. I don't know what possessed me to pick this up on my way out. Maybe you could find a way to get it back to him?”

Allie walked toward the front door, then turned.

“Please reconsider, Lydia. A word of support from you would go a long way toward helping me heal my relationship with my family.” Allie tilted her beautiful head and smiled. Her tone was playful as she made one last attempt to charm. “You know me: I always find a way to get what I want. You might as well just give in now.”

Lydia watched from her doorway as the luxury sedan carried its elegant passenger back down the long driveway. When she saw the rear lights turn right on Island View Drive, she closed and locked the door.

Then she threw Oliver's medal against the far wall.

“You guys want something to eat?” Bilbo Runyan settled his lanky body down on the top step of Carlton Smydon's porch. He pulled a pack of Camels from the pocket of his flannel shirt and shook out one filterless cigarette. “I'm not much of a cook or nothing, but I got some cheese and bean burritos I can nuke up.”

Mort noticed Bilbo was more hospitable than he'd been during their previous visit. Was it Larry's assurances he was interested only in Carlton's religious artifacts and research material that put the man at ease? Or was it the contents of that small pipe Bilbo just stuffed into the pocket of his sagging sweatpants?

“That's okay, Bilbo.” Mort followed Larry up the stairs to the front door. “My digestive system's a little too sleepy to take on burritos this early in the morning.”

“It's Friday, man.” Bilbo's eyes were at half-mast. “Don't need to follow no rules on Friday. That's why they give it the ‘TGI' designation. Besides, a burrito always sounds good to me.”

Mort had no doubt.

Larry had wanted to make another pass at Carlton's office. He'd been sidetracked the first time by the cache of letters from Helen. Mort accompanied him for at least two reasons. First and foremost, he'd be there to support his friend as he plowed through a lifetime of Carlton's papers. There were sure to be references to Helen, and Mort would be there if Larry needed him. The second reason Mort wanted to join Carlton was he hadn't yet heard back from Rita Willers. The chief said she was going to interview Blue Dancer herself to see if there was any doubt in her assessment that Bilbo Runyan wasn't the man she'd dropped off at the sweat lodge the day Carlton and the others were killed. Until Bilbo could be ruled out, Mort wanted to stay close.

But there was another reason Mort was willing to spend his morning standing by Larry as he went through a dead man's records. He knew Lydia would be using every one of her resources to locate Allie. Until she did, he couldn't calculate his next move. Mort hated the helplessness of waiting. Even if there was nothing more to be learned from Carlton's papers, and Blue Dancer was certain Bilbo was not the second killer, he'd rather be chasing dead ends than twiddling his thumbs hoping a phone would ring.

Mort laid a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. “Enjoy the morning, buddy. Larry and I will be back in Carlton's office.”

“This may take a while,” Larry warned before entering the house. “If you need to be somewhere, we can lock up after we leave.”

Bilbo shook his mop of uncombed hair. “This is my kingdom, man. Ain't no other place for me to be. You know the way, right?”

Larry assured him they did.

Carlton's office was bigger than Mort had expected. The room filled the entire back half of the small house. Windows were centered on the east and west walls, but on this Friday morning, with gray clouds hanging low and thick, they offered little illumination of the heavy furnishings. The north wall was filled with floor-to-ceiling cherry bookshelves laden with tidy rows of books and binders interspersed with figurines, photos, and statues. The door to Carlton's office was flanked by nearly a dozen framed photographs and paintings. An oversized desk and a table large enough to seat eight people were the main pieces of furniture. Each was made of dark-stained oak, and each had one chair behind it. This is where Carlton had done the bulk of his research, as evidenced by the neatly stacked books and papers. There was no overhead lighting. Instead, green-shaded banker's lamps were positioned on the desk and table. One overstuffed chair, its worn velour upholstery testifying to its age and frequent use, was off to the corner, serviced by a side table and sturdy brass reading lamp. The overall effect was a room furnished for solitary work as opposed to entertaining. This was a sanctuary for serious scholarship.

“This is where Helen's uncle spent most of his time?” Mort stepped to the back bookshelves and glanced at the titles of some leather-bound volumes. “He didn't have a job?”

Larry was already at the large table, separating three tall piles of books into numerous shorter piles. “This
was
his job. His partial ownership in Abraham's fish business allowed him to focus on what he considered his true calling.”

Mort picked a figurine off the shelf. It was a replica of a human hand carved from soapstone. The hand was positioned with its thumb holding the pinkie and ring finger down while the pointer and index finger were extended forward. He held it up for Larry to see. “What's this?”

Larry looked up from his sorting. “That's a sword finger. In Qigong that positioning of the hand is used in various rituals. Carlton was specifically interested in the concept of forgiveness. The Temple of the Celestial Cloud has a detailed ritual for that. A person recites prescribed chants and intermittently makes a cutting gesture across his face while holding his hand in the sword finger position.” Larry mimicked the gesture with his own hand and made a diagonal slice in front of his face from his left forehead to his right chin. Then he nodded toward the shelf just to the right of where Mort stood. “See that lei?”

“This?” Mort pointed to a necklace of dried leaves.

“That's woven from the fruit of the hala tree. It's given in native Hawaiian culture upon completion of a ho‘oponopono ceremony.”

“What's a hopo…hoponon…hell, Larry, what's that?” Mort asked.

“Ho‘oponopono is an ancient island practice for granting or seeking forgiveness. The Hawaiians say there's two kinds of forgiveness. Now or later. They say, and I believe, not forgiving blocks a person from moving forward. The ceremony's actually quite moving. I've had the opportunity to participate in ho‘oponopono on two occasions. It's centered on four statements:
I'm sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you, and I love you.
”

“And just like that everything's made right?” Mort was frowning.

“If only that was true. But Carlton knew mercy was the only way out of the pain he felt after Helen was murdered.” He pointed to a painting on the wall. “That's Saint Paul. In the Christian tradition he commands us to forgive as the Lord forgave us. And, of course, Christ is the ultimate symbol of forgiveness to His followers. I think Carlton spent his life looking for a way to absolve Kenny Kamm for this terrible thing he did to Helen. He knew that if he didn't, his hatred and resentment would eat away at him and destroy him.” Larry opened his arms to indicate the room. “That's what all this is about. That large sword mounted above the window? That's from the Hindu tradition. Vidura taught forgiveness subdues all.” He closed his eyes and recited from memory. “ ‘What can a wicked person do to anyone who carries the sabre of forgiveness?' Carlton was desperately seeking his own peace. He knew there would be no stillness for him until he found a way to reconcile Kamm's brutal act.”

Mort surveyed the room again. Everything he saw took on new meaning. The gilded dove on Carlton's desk brought a memory from his Sunday school years that the bird was to be a sign of hope and pardon. He smiled at the small framed print of daffodils and recalled the spring afternoon early in his marriage when Edie had filled their bedroom with a dozen vases of the flowers. He'd done something incredibly stupid. He couldn't recall the details but remembered he'd hurt her in a big way and she'd gone on a two-day freeze-out. He would always remember his relief when he'd come home to that explosion of yellow and white flowers. Edie had pulled him into a warm embrace and explained daffodils were the floral symbol of pardon. She was his girl again.

And what do I do with this Allie stone in my heart?
he wondered.
Is Larry right? Is forgiveness the place I need to get to? Am I brave enough to even start down that road?

Mort pushed the questions away. “I'll leave you to your work, Larry. If you need me I'll be out on the stoop, seeing what old Bilbo's up to.”

Larry was too engrossed in Carlton's journals to respond. Mort admired his friend's ability to become so wrapped up in whatever held his attention that the rest of the world ceased to exist. Perhaps the skill was what made Larry the respected scholar he was. Or maybe it was Larry's own strategy for getting through the pain of Helen's kidnapping and murder. Carlton spent his life searching for peace by finding a way to forgive his niece's killer. Had Larry discovered another way? Could it be possible for Mort to find his own way to close off the reality of what his daughter had become and the gnawing fear that Robbie and the twins were in danger?

Or maybe Mort was meant to simmer in his regret for the father he'd been to Allie. His wishing for a do-over with his daughter may not be the most effective way to deal with the pain of Allie's actions, but at least it was familiar to him.

Mort found Bilbo right where he left him: still on the top stoop of Carlton's porch, shaking out yet another Camel straight.

“How many of those you inhale in a day?” Mort settled down next to the sixty-year-old relic from a bygone, tie-dyed culture. “You've heard the health bulletins, I take it.”

Bilbo Runyan's yellow-toothed smile was enough to answer Mort's question. “Fuck that crap. I like to smoke. I don't worry about what's coming. It's all about the moment, man. Living for today. Cuz I'll tell you something. Today's all we got. And one of these days we won't even have that. Gotta live like you're dying, man, cuz we all are.”

Mort suddenly realized Bilbo's grief over Carlton's sudden death was probably more acute than Larry's. Bilbo and Carlton had been friends since grade school and spent every day Carlton wasn't traveling together in this house. Why hadn't he realized that earlier? Edie used to tell Mort he'd get so caught up in whatever case he was working that sometimes he let the most obvious facts of human nature pass him by. He'd always promise to do better, but they both knew that wasn't possible.

“That's okay,” Edie used to say. “I've got your back. I'll let you know when you're missing something big.”

Well, he'd sure overlooked this damaged man's obvious grief.

“How's it going for you, Bilbo? With Carlton gone, I mean. It must be tough for you to lose your friend like that.”

Bilbo didn't answer. Mort had come to appreciate the power of silence. He sat quietly beside him while Bilbo finished the Camel he had in his fingers.

The Friday sidewalk traffic held Mort's attention while Bilbo smoked three more after that. Young mothers in high-tech running clothes trotted behind strollers bearing toddlers wearing miniature North Face fleece jackets. Skateboarders traveled down the center of the street in packs of twos and threes, swerving reluctantly out of the way of the occasional car driving past. A hipster couple shuffled by, dressed oddly alike with his skinny black jeans and her tight black miniskirt. They held hands but didn't speak. Each bobbed their heads to music heard only by them through look-alike red earbuds as they headed down the block to any number of trendy brunch places a half mile away. Mort checked his cellphone and ignored two calls that came in. Nearly an hour had passed when Bilbo finally spoke.

“Nobody knows what Carlton and I been through, man.” Bilbo coughed, and Mort's stomach reeled at the tobacco stench that wafted his way. “Well, mostly nobody. Helen got us, that's for sure. I'd like to say we were brothers. But it was more than that.” He turned paranoid eyes toward Mort. “We weren't gay for each other or nothing like that, if that's what you're thinking.”

Mort shook his head. “I wasn't thinking anything. Tell me what it was like for you guys.” Maybe Bilbo could give him some kind of thread to tug on to track down why Carlton had been targeted in that sweat lodge.

Bilbo pulled himself up into something resembling a standing position. “I gotta take a leak,” he mumbled.

Mort waited on the front porch while Bilbo was inside. Five men whizzed by on bicycles he knew cost more than his first car. All were dressed in spandex shorts and neon-bright shirts. All had helmets color coordinated with their bikes. Mort shook his head and wondered how looking like shrink-wrapped peacocks enhanced one's biking performance.

Ten minutes later Bilbo returned. His eyes were out of focus, and he held both arms slightly off to his side as he slowly seated himself back on the stoop.

Mort smiled. “Bet that burrito sounds good about now, huh?”

Bilbo looked to his right and then his left. “Shoulda got it while I was up, man. I'm good right here, I guess.” Then, to Mort's surprise, Bilbo started talking. He told the story again about how he and Carlton met. About how people couldn't understand their interracial friendship. Mort heard about pranks they'd pulled together in school and scams they'd pulled on parents and women. Mort laughed out loud at a tale involving a canoe, a butter knife, and a rookie park ranger afraid of the dark.

“You two were suited for each other,” Mort remarked. “Two peas in a pod.”

Bilbo nodded. “Brothers from different mothers, man. At least we were. Then Helen went and got herself bumped off. Shit really changed after that.”

Mort heard again how Carlton went crazy after Helen's death. How he disappeared for weeks.

“Thought that boy was lost to me forever,” Bilbo said. “But he come back. A changed man, but he come back. Promised still to always keep tight with me. But it was different.”

“How so?” Mort hoped for a clue.

Bilbo's back stiffened. He swiped a hand across his face before running it through his graying hair. “Just different is all.” His tone lost its earlier air of friendly reminiscence. “Carlton had his religious shit and I guess you could say I had shit of my own.”

“You guys ever clash? You two had what you might call different lifestyles, after all.”

Bilbo stared straight ahead. Mort could sense he was losing him.