The Barkeep (46 page)

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’m not going anywhere.”

“He cut me.”

“A scratch.”

“He made me ugly.”

“Impossible.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, not about anything.”

“It’s only what I deserve.”

“No, you deserve only the best. Instead you’re ending with me. But I’ll try to take care of you from here on in.”

“Okay, I’ll let you try.”

“It’s a promise.”

“I believe you, but only because I want to.”

He leaned down and kissed her, and even with the fear that had soaked though his pores that night, and the blood, and the pain now from his stabbed hand, he kissed her, and it felt like a sunny day, like the first sunny day since his mother died.

He was staring at her still when Scott lumbered back through the door into the hallway.

“Gone,” said Scott.

“How?” said Justin, without looking up.

“Window open, fire escape down. Son of a bitch is going to get away.”

“Somehow,” said Justin, looking at love’s bloodied face, “I don’t think so.”

66.

RED BULL

“W
ho killed him?” said Justin’s father in a hushed tone at their table in the Graterford Prison visitors’ room.

“I don’t know,” lied Justin, his stitched and bandaged left hand lying heavily on the table.

“Who do the police think it was?”

“They would probably think it was me, since they tried to link me with every other killing that happened in the city in the past few weeks, but I was with that Detective Scott at the time Bickham was murdered, so I’m in the clear. They found his body in a parking lot, his neck snapped like a twig. Bickham apparently had an accomplice, and there is a thought that the accomplice turned on him for the money.”

“The money you got from Frank.”

“Yes.”

“Money well spent, then. You can’t say the malicious son of a bitch didn’t deserve it.”

“No,” said Justin. “You can’t say that.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, over and over, and I still don’t understand.”

“Understand what, Dad?”

“What I did to make Bickham hate me so much.”

“Hate you?”

“He had to hate me more than life itself to do what he did to me.”

“To you?”

“Of course, yes, don’t you see? He took every opportunity to ruin my chances of getting out of this hellhole. His hatred of me must have been so overwhelming, it was pathological.”

“That’s exactly the right word,” said Justin.

“First he killed Timmy before Timmy could testify on my behalf. Then he had you beaten and warned to stop trying to help me. Sensing you wouldn’t stop, he followed you. And after you found Janet Moss, he brutally killed her. That he tried to kill you and then went after Annie only proves it. A hate like that is like a wild animal. It just stalks and kills. Vernon Bickham was my very own Iago.”

To Justin it was a shocking reference, and he savored it for a moment. Justin knew it was about as close to a confession as he would ever get from his father. But if it was a confession, it was purely Freudian, because Justin’s father kept on as if he had given away nothing, as if Othello, who had been viciously hated by Iago, had not himself placed the pillow over Desdemona’s mouth and smothered her to death.

“Now we must figure out what to do about my case,” said Justin’s father.

“What does your lawyer say?”

“Sarah? She’s quite overcome by all that’s happened. This has been more than she bargained for, I expect.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“She wants to wait awhile, on everything. She thinks my motion has become hopeless. She is worried that we might only get one bite of the apple and thinks that now is not the time to take it.”

“She’s probably right.”

“I’ve told her to withdraw my motion.”

“Good. I’m glad, Dad. Strategically, I mean.”

“Yes, of course. We must hold on to whatever ammunition we have. You keep bringing up the same things, they begin to ignore you, like that Mumia.”

“Just like.”

“In any event, she wasn’t a good enough lawyer to pull it off. Patent law. I’m going to find someone new to help me out.”

“Good idea.”

“Someone with a criminal background who knows what the hell he’s doing. Now tell me about Annie. How is she?”

“Shaken.”

“I heard that animal cut her face. How bad is it?”

“Bad.”

“It’s a shame. She was always such a good-looking woman.”

“Yes she was, if you like that sort of look.”

“I feel for her.”

“I’ll make sure she knows.”

“Take care of her for me, will you?”

“If you want me to. For you, I mean.”

“She should give up on me, she should start dating someone her own age. It’s time. She needs a life.”

“I’ll tell her.”

Justin’s father glanced around at the cruel banality of the visiting room. “I think if I stay too much longer, I’m going to go insane.”

“Go?”

“You don’t know what it’s like to be caged for something you didn’t do.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“But one thing keeps me going.”

“Red Bull?”

“You, Justin.”

“Me?”

“You cannot know how much it means to me to see how hard you worked for my freedom. Just the thought of it keeps me going.”

“I’m glad, Dad.”

“And look at us, after all these years of silence, talking now like the best of friends. The irony that you’ve become my new champion is almost too precious for words.”

“It leaves me speechless too.”

“See, the thing is, Justin, of all the people outside these walls, the only one I can count on not to forget about me is you.”

“You’re right about that.”

“We’re going to find the one responsible, you and me, together. Father and son. We’re going to find who it was who killed your mother and we’re going to make him pay for everything.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

“While I’m in here, stewing, he’s out there, Justin, eating shrimp and fucking lithe young girls.”

“And all without inviting me. The nerve.”

“But we’re going to find him.”

“The one-armed man.”

“Exactly. You and me, Justin.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Working together for a common cause.”

“Like in a storybook.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a funny thing about those storybooks, how the deepest wishes of the hero so often come true.”

“Let’s hope, let’s only hope. I love you, son.”

“I love you, too,” said Justin, and when he said it the most peculiar thing happened. Despite everything he had been through, despite everything he now knew with utter certainty, when he said those four words, something thick and heavy lodged in his heart.

It was the truth, what he said, he did love his father, despite everything, maybe because of everything. And at the end of the visit, when they were allowed once more to touch, he gave his father a hug, and it was shockingly genuine. And there were tears, at least the tears of a son.

Something had come over him, some peace that was truer than anything he had tried to find in his battered old
Book of the Dead
or during his meditative purges. The emotion hadn’t flowed out of him, like in those sessions in his upstairs room, it had flowed in, gushed in, and the gushing changed everything. He didn’t feel hate anymore, or despondency, or despair, he didn’t feel overwhelmed by his worthlessness or his guilt. What he felt instead was love. Love had flowed in and brought light to the darkness and resurrected his soul like the precious words of the book, only it was a gift given to the living, not the dead.

67.

GIN RIKKI

M
ia Dalton was outside Graterford Prison with Detective Scott, waiting. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the asphalt was hot, the air smelled of the burned oil of outdated cars. Mia sat on the hood of the unmarked police vehicle that had brought them to the lot, parked right next to a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with a cobalt-blue gas tank. Scott leaned against the side of the car, his reading glasses low on his nose, a folded newspaper in one hand and a pencil in the other.

“E-M-E-D-E-R,” said Scott.

“Emetic?” said Mia.

“There’s no C,” he said, tapping the paper with the tip of his pencil.

“If you had any real brains, you’d be doing the crossword.”

“If I had any real brains, I’d have your job.”

“What’s taking him so long?” she said.

“You can’t rush family,” said Scott. “I still don’t know why, if you wanted to talk to the boy, we had to charge up here when they told us he was in for a visit. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just called?”

“I’ve been calling. He doesn’t answer and doesn’t return my calls. I’ve even knocked on his door. Nothing.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“If I waited until someone wanted to talk to me, Detective, I’d be talking to the walls.”

“There’s a message in that, Mia.” He tapped the paper in his hand. “Redeem.”

“It took you long enough.”

“I’m getting old.”

“Not too old. I’m pulling you from your Missing Persons gig.”

“No you’re not.”

“It’s done already. You’re working for me.”

“But I don’t want to work for you.”

“Tell it to the commissioner.”

“You know I will.”

“You’re too good to fade away at a desk. And I got your pay grade bumped up too, which will bump up your final pension.”

“It’s no fair you trying to bribe me.”

“Is it working?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t working, I just said it wasn’t fair.”

“You start tomorrow.”

Mia Dalton had hoped it would allow her to sleep more soundly at night, learning the truth about Mackenzie Chase. When Detective Scott had called with the whole story about Vernon Bickham and his playacting as Birdie Grackle, she had felt a keen sense of relief. It didn’t answer all the questions about the murder of Eleanor Chase, and it didn’t yet solve the connection between the murder of Timmy Flynn and Rebecca Staim, a mystery that might never get solved, but it certainly made it clear that Mackenzie Chase was exactly where he should remain for the rest of his miserable life. Whatever she had done at that trial five years ago, she had done the exact right thing.

And yet still she tossed and turned with insomnious vigor
through the night as Rikki slept heavily and peacefully beside her.

Which meant her uncertainty was not focused on any one case, on any one defendant, but on the span of her career, or on the whole of her life. She somehow had slipped from a delicious certainty into an existential crisis without noticing. When the hell did that happen? And what would she do about it?

Detective Scott clucked his tongue and nodded toward a thin, bladelike figure leaving the prison’s visitor entrance. In the calm, steady gait, Mia recognized Justin Chase.

When Justin reached Mia, still sitting on the hood of the car, he smiled at her. A smile was something she hadn’t ever seen on Justin Chase before. He looked good in it.

“You guys still following me?” said Justin.

“We wanted to see how you were getting on,” said Scott.

Justin lifted his bandaged hand. “I’m trying to meditate the pain away.”

“And how’s that working out?”

“Not well. The blade went right through.”

“My advice is pills,” said Scott, “and lots of them.”

“How’s your father?” said Mia.

“Angry, bewildered, more determined than ever to get out. But I do have to tell you, Ms. Dalton, in some strange way, my relationship with my father has never been richer. I guess I have you to thank.”

“So you’re still going to work to get him out of jail?”

Justin turned his gaze to the gray surface of the prison. “Ever since my mom died, I’ve been looking for something meaningful to do with my life.”

“Bartending, wasn’t it?” said Scott.

“For a while it sufficed, I suppose. But I’ve finally found something I want to dedicate my life to.”

“Your father?” said Mia.

“That’s right,” said Justin. He turned to stare straight into Mia’s eyes. “And making sure he never, ever steps foot out of that foul building.”

Detective Scott laughed at that. “Now you’re learning.”

“You know, Justin,” said Mia, “the best place to keep tabs on your father’s case would be in the DA’s office.”

“I’m not a lawyer anymore.”

“You were never a lawyer,” said Mia. “But your legal education is impeccable and you have something that most of our lawyers don’t have: you know what it is to be a victim. We spend much of our time dealing with the victims and their families, yet it’s all too easy to forget what they’re going through as we fight to build our cases. You never would.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Think about it. Take the bar exam, buy a suit, cut your hair.”

“Cut my hair?”

“Do all that and I promise there will be a job waiting for you at the office.”

“How’s that Overmeyer girl?” said Scott.

“Not bad considering she’s got a face full of stitches,” said Justin.

“Give her my regards.”

“Come over for tea sometime, Detective, and you can give them yourself.”

“I just might.”

Justin smiled before hopping onto the seat of his motorcycle and taking hold of his helmet, ready to ride like a hero into the setting sun.

“One last thing, Justin,” said Mia. “I thought you should know that it was highly unlikely that your mother was having an affair with Austin Moss.”

Justin turned his head and stared at her.

“When Austin Moss died, he was living with a man named Nick. They were more than roommates. His struggle was to be truthful to himself, and apparently, according to this Nick, your mother was a great help to him. Which sort of puts those letters of your mother in a different context. I thought you should know.”

“Thank you,” said Justin, his voice as cold and as distant as his gaze as he tried to figure it out. Without anything further, he put on his helmet, kicked the bike alive, pulled out of the lot.

“He didn’t take it like I expected,” said Mia.