Liquid Lies (20 page)

As I waited for Mark near the pavilion, I took in the surroundings. The police tape was down. The dock and pavilion were open again. But this late at night there was little activity. There was a smattering of people on the dock. A couple walked hand in hand under the moonlight near the shoreline. A lone man sat on a bench overlooking the lake. Across the street, music poured from H&K’s.

Scanning the surrounding area, I didn’t see either Mark or Jacob. Was I wrong about him being the killer? Or was he just too smart to fall for my trap? Did he know it was a trap? What was holding up Mark? A half hour went by while I cruised the area. I watched who arrived and who left. I tried Mark’s cell a couple of times and it went right to voice mail.

In the distance a siren pierced the silence. Waves crashed against the dock. Taking in a deep breath, I was filled with the comforting earthy smell of the lake. How long should I wait? I didn’t have a plan B yet if my hoax didn’t work for snaring Jacob.

My cell rang. The caller I.D. said Ken. I answered the call, “Hi, I’m glad that you called. I was thinking about you.”

“Mark’s in the ER,” Ken interrupted.

Numbness momentarily fogged my brain. “Oh my God. Is he okay?”

“We don’t know for sure. It’s a head wound, he’s in ICU,” Ken said.

“What happened?” I asked as my voice shook.

“Someone found him lying unconscious outside the funeral home,” Ken said.

Every part of my body felt tingly as though it was asleep. My legs felt like jelly.

Trembling, I choked into the phone, “I’ll be right there.”

On my way to the hospital I called Mark’s parents. They said they would get there as soon as they could, right after they left their daughter with neighbors. The nurses allowed me to enter Mark’s intensive care room. I sat next to him.

Mark’s head was bandaged, an IV was hooked up to his arm and there were several other cords and monitors. His eyes were swollen. His breathing was shallow. Beeps and hums emitted from machines. I held his hand as tears trickled down my cheeks.

“It’s going to be okay. It is. You’ll pull though this. You’ll be fine. It will all be fine.” I attempted to comfort him, hoping that he could hear me.

As I watched Mark sleep, Ken entered the room. “He has a cranial fracture with internal bleeding,” he said as he checked on Mark.

“But, he’ll be okay right?” I asked as I smoothed the blanket over Mark.

Ken didn’t answer.

“I mean, he can make a full recovery, right?” I continued as a lump in my throat formed.

Ken gave me the look I knew all too well. The one that said ‘don’t be so naïve’.

Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how demeaning that look can feel.

“Why did you give me that look? Mark is going to be just fine.” I added as I gently touched the side of Mark’s face.

“There’s no guarantee. With this type of injury, most patients struggle to make it through.” Ken jotted some notes on the clipboard. Before he left he said, “I’m really sorry CiCi.” He paused. “About everything.”

Mark groaned and moved his head slightly to one side. His lips were dry and his face pale.

“Hey Mark, it’s me,” I said.

He did not respond.

“You’re going to be fine. It’s just a little bump on the head. And since you have a thick head, you’ll come right out of this. No problem,” I added. If he heard me joke with him, like we always did, I hoped that it would encourage him.

His lips parted.

“Mark? Can you hear me? It’s CiCi.”

In an almost inaudible whisper Mark muttered, “Not Jacob.”

I waited for more. Nothing.

“Mark, what do you mean it’s not Jacob? Not Jacob what?” I asked.

Silence.

“Mark, are you okay? C’mon now, don’t worry about anything but getting better. You don’t have to talk. Rest,” I implored. “I need you to pull through. I love you Mark and you’re going to be just fine. We’ll be back delivering mail on Monday morning just like nothing ever happened.”

My throat felt tight as I stroked Mark’s arm. He felt cool to the touch. The aroma of rubbing alcohol permeated my nostrils and I cringed. The whole place smelled too sterile to me.

I began to pray about Mark healing and getting out of bed and walking out of the hospital.

After a few moments, Mark’s swollen eyes slid open very slightly.

“Ask father,” Mark whispered through his chapped pale lips.

“Ask father?” I repeated. “Your father? What do you want me to ask him? Listen, your parents are on the way, you can ask them yourself.”

“Ask,” floated out in a soft breath from him.

Machines around Mark began buzzing and beeping loudly as two nurses and one doctor rushed in with a cart full of equipment. I was ushered out of the room and told to wait in the reception area.

I thought about what Mark said, “Not Jacob” and “Ask father.” I had no idea exactly what that meant. There were so many possibilities. Not Jacob could mean that Jacob did not hit him in the head. Or that Jacob did not kill Francesca, or that Jacob was not the blackmailer or that Jacob had nothing to do with anything.

What puzzled me was “Ask father.” Whose father and what do I ask him? Surly Mark did not mean for me to ask father, like in Father O’Doul. I figured it had to do with Francesca’s death since he was helping me on that investigation. So I was going to assume he meant ask Francesca’s father.

Now the next question was what should I ask Francesca’s father? It must be critically important for Mark to tell me in his state of mind.

But what if everything that Mark said meant nothing at all? After all, he had a head injury, which could alter his thoughts.

Mark’s parents joined me in the waiting room. I updated them on what I knew so far. We sat on the blue sofas near an area that smelled of disinfectant. We talked and drank some stale black coffee from the vending machine.

Two hours went by before a doctor came out to see us. We rose to greet him. My legs were shaking and my heart pounded with such force that I heard it in my ears. I willed the doctor to say something wonderful.

“He didn’t make it.” Were the last words I heard before I collapsed back into the couch as the room spun. I heard wailing. I think it came from me and his mom. The rest of the night was a blur.

At one in the morning I left the hospital. I remember walking outside, not knowing what to do next, where I lived, if I even cared. So much sadness filled me that I felt close to exploding. I wanted to run. Turn back the hands of time.

I begged God to make Mark better. I promised God that I would go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life, plus say a weekly rosary if he could make Mark better. At one point, I played around with the idea that the hospital made a huge mistake. That at any minute I would get a call: “Mark is just fine. Sorry for the terrible mix-up.”

Numb and disconnected, I wandered further away from the hospital.

My heart could not take another blow. Before long, I found myself meandering in Jacob’s neighborhood. Everything felt upside down, I was adrift in a huge sea of ambiguity with no anchor of assurance. Grief saturated every cell in my body, strangling my soul, as though nothing mattered anymore. Or maybe never did. A light was on at Jacob’s townhouse. I don’t know what possessed me. I rang his doorbell.

A disheveled and tired looking Jacob greeted me, guiding me in to his house. “A friend from the hospital called. I heard about Mark.”

That was all it took. I fell into his arms and sobbed like a baby as he held me. The need to feel allied with someone was so overwhelming that I held his face in my hands and kissed him.

He kissed me back with a fierce passion that I hadn’t felt in years. Thankful to feel anything other than pain and sadness, I abandoned any of my moral constraints on being appropriate, and concentrated solely on feeling connected to another human.

“Are you sure this is what you want right now?” Jacob said as he nuzzled my neck.

“Yes,” I said. Hell if I knew, I thought.

Even if I regretted it tomorrow, I needed this now.

He gently picked me up, as we continued to kiss, and carried me to his bedroom.

***

“You look amazing in the morning,” Jacob said as he kissed my back.

His bedroom was filled with the early morning sunlight. The pale green sheets were tangled around our feet, and he lay spooned behind me. The heat from his body penetrated my back.

I turned toward him, and smelled a faint scent of musk.

“Is this the part where I slink away full of shame and remorse for letting you have your way with me?” I looked into his emerald eyes surrounded by thick dark eyelashes.

“As I remember it, it was you who showed up at my door and took advantage of me.” Jacob traced a finger down my stomach and then slowly ran it back up to my breasts.

“And now when we run into each other we have to look the other way, both full of regret for the one night stand. I will hang my head in shame every time I see you,” I touched his silky dark hair.

“Absolutely,” Jacob smiled as he lowered himself over me. “But first we must reenact the crime, so you’ll know for sure what it is you should be ashamed of.”

“I could be up for that.”

“You know what,” he asked.

“No,” I said.

He began to kiss my neck. “I’m glad you showed up here last night. I didn't see you at the pavilion.”

It was as though someone dropped me off a ledge, everything in my body plummeted. He showed up at the pavilion. Shit. He took my bait. He killed Francesca. But why did Mark say ‘Not Jacob’? It could’ve been that Mark was delirious from the head injury when he said that. Right now it didn’t matter. I had to get the hell away from Jacob.

I bolted out of bed, and tumbled on the floor still tangled with a sheet around my foot. “I have to go.”

“What?” Jacob said as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“I have to be somewhere and I forgot.”

“Not again. CiCi talk to me.”

“Trust me I really wish I could. Really. But I just can’t now. I’m so sorry.” I dressed and strode quickly out of his house.

Jacob called to me as I walked down the sidewalk, “I’d like to see you again.”

No way. He was a murderer. Yes way. I felt an incredible connection to him. My feelings for Jacob were split into two polar opposite sides. Yet right now, I shoved grief into a dark corner and replaced it with anger. Anger at the deaths of Francesca and Mark. Anger at the killer. I had to solve their murders.

First on the agenda was to go to the funeral home and talk to Mark’s buddies. Maybe they were with him last night and could give me some insight on what went on before he left. Before someone clunked him on the head. Second, I had to meet Vivian for brunch at eleven. My thoughts briefly went to Jacob. To the passion I experienced in his arms the night before.

Okay. Sleeping with Jacob might not have been the smartest move I’d ever made, but for the life of me, it never felt wrong while we made love. Although logically it should. My former best friend and current best friend were both dead. I was fresh off a breakup. I ran into the arms of a stranger who was possibly the killer. Not at all a rational move.

I decided not to punish myself for what was so out of character, and I blamed it on shock and grief. Let it go and move on with reality. Reality, which sucked pretty bad right now. Instinctively I wanted to call Mark. We always called each other and found out what the other’s plans were for the day.

But Mark was gone. Mark, with the great sense of humor, who would drop everything to help anyone. Mark, with the distinctive wild mop of red hair and the most loyal heart. It tormented me that I could very well be responsible for his death. After all, I’m the one who involved him in the hunt for Francesca’s murderer. I also wore his clothes and his captain’s hat the night I made the drop. Could the blackmailer have thought that Mark was the one who made the drop?

“We’re all numb. You’d think because we deal with death every day that we’d be immune to it,” said Samuel, one of Mark’s co-workers at the funeral home. The same Samuel Mark was training to take over as mail boat captain.

We stood together in the reception area of the funeral home, in front of a table with refreshments and a coffee pot. A thick brown Oriental rug covered the middle of the hardwood floor, and dark burgundy furniture adorned the space, it looked just like a living room.

“Nope. We’re never immune to it,” added Mr. Kincaid, owner of Kincaid Funeral Home.

He was as tall as he was wide, with thin grey hair and a rumpled white shirt under a blue pinstriped jacket.

The three of us reminisced about Mark. We exchanged what we knew of Mark’s
life. I think each of us wanted to know what circumstances led to Mark’s death. And that somehow in that knowledge, comfort would find us.