What Hides Within (17 page)

"I knew it! Damn it, Clive! You've got to stick up for yourself. You can't just let people walk all over you."

Discouraged, Clive ran his fingers across the length of the bandage. The tissue was soft, tender beneath it.

"It's going to look awful until the stitches are removed and the hair grows back. It's difficult enough to keep the bandages in place. Taking a shower is a real pain in the ass."

"Are the voices gone at least?"

"Yes."

Clive's pause was short but significant. Did he hesitate too long? Did Morgan notice? How could he possibly explain the other woman in his life, his stowaway friend? No, Chester needed to remain his secret.

Morgan stared intently at Clive, he assumed to provoke elaboration. She'd get none. Clive wasn't ready to talk.

"That's good," she said. "Now have some fucking self-respect and get yourself a lawyer. What he did to your head isn't right."

"She's right, you know."

Clive turned his head slowly to confront the eavesdropper, half-expecting a nosey cleaning person whom he had a mind to tell off. But when his eyes met his addressor's, his mouth stumbled for the words. He lost his train of thought, mesmerized by the dark beauty before him.

"Maybe you should mind your own damn business," Morgan scolded. Clive wondered if she was jealous or just redirecting her anger.

Her voice summoned Clive back from his enchanted gaze. The woman turned to Morgan, and Clive jumped at the opportunity to examine the rest of her features. A not-so-cursory glance later, Clive reckoned the stranger was only a few years older than he. He liked what he saw, even if Morgan's comment had made the woman's face cold and fierce. Her charm, however, turned out to be fleeting.

"And you are?" Clive asked in his most debonair voice.

"Samantha Reilly, but you can call me Detective Reilly. You're a tough man to get a hold of, Mr. Menard."

"Not really," Clive answered.

The word "detective" had turned his lust into dust. He was minimally intrigued by her presence but preferred not to know the reasons for it.

Detective Reilly glanced at Morgan, who stared back with a breadstick in hand. She gnawed on its end without attention, her eyes focused intently on their imposing company.

"Would you mind excusing us for a moment?" Reilly asked.

Morgan's face flushed red. Clive could see the strain in her knuckles as she balled up her hands into tiny fists. He was touched by what he took for over-protectiveness.

"It's okay, Morgan," he said, rubbing her hand with his. Visibly upset, she exited the booth.

"I'll go make a phone call, I guess."

She sighed, lingering as though she expected Clive to ask her to stay. Slowly, she drifted out of sight.

When she was safely out of earshot, Clive addressed his company. "What's this about, Detective?"

"I left you my card. I expected you'd call me. When I didn't hear from you, I tried to think of why you might want to avoid me."

"I got your card, and I would have called," he lied. "I just didn't get around to it yet."

Clive had no desire to speak with Detective Reilly. He had no idea what she wanted, but if there were a problem that could be taken care of without his assistance, he'd sooner have it that way. He had no reason to distrust cops, but then again, he had no reason to trust them either, especially not those of Detective Reilly's character. Sexy, sultry and in control, hers was a more commanding presence than Clive's.

"What can you tell me about Kevin Ventura?"

"My roommate? Not much. Why? Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"Have you noticed anything strange about him lately?"

"Nothing more than usual. I hardly see him. He keeps to himself. I can't say I mind it that way."

"He was a student at UMass Dartmouth, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, he goes there."

"So you don't know then?"

"Know what?"

"He was kicked out of school last semester, failing too many classes. He was on academic probation most of his time there."

"I didn't know that. I wonder what he's been doing with himself all day."

"So do we. Perhaps you could keep an eye on him for us?"

"What exactly would I be looking for?"

"Any strange behavior or unusual activity."

"Strange behavior or unusual activity? Isn't that kind of redundant?"

"Are you refusing to cooperate, smart ass?"

"Cooperate with what? You haven't even told me what this is about. Has Kevin done something? Like I said, he keeps to himself. He watches
Hannah Montana
. If that's not a crime, it should be."

"Thanks for your help, Mr. Menard," Reilly said. "Call me when you have something useful to tell me." She slammed her business card on the table and got up to leave.

"Detective, wait."

Clive grabbed Reilly by her arm as she passed him, gesturing for her to retake her seat. She tore her sleeve free as though Clive's touch offended her, yet she sat back into the booth.

"I'd like to help you, but I don't know what you want me to do. As far as I can see, Kevin is antisocial, introverted. But he's also harmless. Perhaps, if you told me what this is all about--"

"And risk jeopardizing my investigation? How do I know I can trust you to keep your mouth shut?"

"Scout's honor," Clive replied, raising his hand as if to pledge an oath. Reilly, however, wasn't that green.

"You were never a Boy Scout, Mr. Menard. I do my research."

"I guess so!" Clive exclaimed, unsettled by the detective's transgression into his private affairs.

"How about I swear an oath on the Bible then?"

"You're an atheist."

"Actually, I'm agnostic," he said gravely. Her intrusions made him fidgety. He played with his silverware to keep his hands occupied. Reaching for his soda, he took a large gulp.

"We think Kevin Ventura may be implicated in the bombing at the campus."

Clive's surprise made soda sprayed from his mouth like a sputtering faucet. Reilly recoiled in time to avoid most of the liquid shooting toward her, with her sleeve being the sole victim of the assault.

"Somebody blew up the university?" he shouted. Many heads in the restaurant turned his way.

"Do you mind keeping your voice down? It's not like that isn't common knowledge, but our list of potential suspects hasn't been released."

Clive's face scrunched up like a slinky. "Awe, man. It came out my nose." The carbonation tickled, but not in a good way. When he had wiped all the soda from his upper lip, he leaned over the table and whispered, "When did it happen?"

"Three days ago. It's been the main topic on all news broadcasts in the area. Whoever did it helped out the Democrats. There haven't been any recent reports on the Edwards affair."

"Edwards had an affair?"

Reilly leaned back. She seemed apprehensive, as if she expected more soda to come her way. Clive contained it this time.

"Do you live in a box?"

"No, but I just got out of the hospital. All we had to watch were re-runs of old soap operas. At least I finally found out who shot J.R. I can sleep better at night now that that mystery is solved." Clive shrugged. "Anyway, I don't watch much TV."

"Your recent hospital stay is exactly why we haven't been looking into you as a possible co-conspirator, unless there's something you think we ought to know about you."

"It seems you already know more than enough, Detective."

"Hospitalized for brain surgery is a pretty good alibi. Not to mention, you had family with you almost the entire time. Still, you did go there, too, didn't you?"

"Where? The university? Yeah, I did . . . for like two semesters. I tried, but college wasn't for me. So, I withdrew."

Clive swirled the soda in his glass as the various pieces of information conferred by Reilly swirled in his head. Slow to connect the pieces, he was hit hard by the realization.

"Wait a minute! You think
Kevin
did it? No way!"

A few more heads tuned in to Clive. Reilly brushed them off. "Sorry . . . Tourette's." That seemed to satisfy the busybodies.

She turned back to Clive and continued in secret. "Yes way. How well do you know the guy?"

"Not well, but--"

"But nothing. Look, all I'm asking is that you pay attention to him, maybe take a look through his things one day when he's not home. You know, stuff like that. Nothing major."

"Again, what would I be looking for?"

"Bomb parts. Anything that can be turned into an explosive. In the school alone, our perpetrator used at least four different types of bombs and incendiary devices. From what we've found, he doesn't use advanced materials. However, he manages to use what he can get effectively. When it comes to blowing shit up, he goes for quantity over quality. Sadly, he has proven to be good at it."

"I don't know anything about bombs. The closest I've been to anything like that are fireworks and this one time when a friend destroyed my mom's rug showing me what mixing milk and chlorine does. What an asshole he was."

"I don't know much about bombs either."

"Detective Reilly, you don't understand. I never so much as cherry-bombed a toilet, and that was a popular thing to do when we were kids. I wouldn't know an explosive from a toaster."

"Still, if you notice objects like pipes, circuits, wires, tubes, plastic, etcetera . . . things that seem to have no purpose inside your apartment, let me know."

"I think you got the wrong guy."

"We'd appreciate your help on this, Mr. Menard."

"Oh, I'll help you. By 'wrong guy,' I meant that I don't think Kevin would do that."

"If you're right, then we can check him off our list and move closer to the real murderer."

"So people died?"

"Lots."

"Why can't you just get a warrant?"

Clive was quicker to put an answer to that question. He wouldn't give Reilly time to make up an excuse.

"Ah, no evidence."
Thank God! There's probably some shit I'll need to hide before the piggies come knocking.

"We have some. Just not enough yet, so sayeth Judge McIntyre. At this time, we're doing an initial investigation into those who were recently expelled from the school. When I saw Ventura's student ID . . . let's just say he has a familiar face. I've been watching him, but I could use some help. That's where you come in. Keep my card this time. Call me if you find something."

***

Outside, Morgan sucked down the last drag of her cigarette. She shivered in the cooling autumn breeze, clenching her arms in close by her sides. Cradled between her ear and her shoulder, her cellphone seized her concentration. She waited impatiently as it rang.

"Hello," a man's voice answered.

"Can you meet me somewhere in like a half-hour?" she asked.

"Sure. What's up?"

"Something's going on with Clive. He's not right. He looks so empty. And now, some detective is coming around, asking him questions."

"I'm sure it's nothing. Clive has always steered clear of trouble. As for his demeanor, he just had brain surgery."

"It's not only that. He lied to me. I know him. He never lies to me. He may . . . I think that maybe he's still hearing voices. If not that, then something serious must be up. Just meet up with me. I could use someone to talk to about it, someone who knows him like you do."

"Alright."

"He's talking with the detective. We can talk more about this when I can get away from them. I'll call you back in a few. We need to figure out some of the details for his party, anyway."

"Paintballs hurt like hell in the cold weather. Plus, Clive can't be running around like crazy, risking re-opening his head. Let's just go drinking. He'll be fine with that, and it'll save me and you some money."

"My thoughts exactly, minus the cheapskate part."

Morgan let out a sigh. She had another reason for agreeing. She would get Clive drunk. Clive couldn't keep his mouth shut when he was drunk. He'd talk then. He'd tell her everything going on in that convoluted head of his. Maybe she'd finally be able to release the burden weighing down her spirit. Maybe she could finally tell him that what wasn't supposed to happen happened. Maybe she could finally tell him she loved him.

What's he doing here? What business could he possibly have in a place like this? And what's that in his hand?

A man watched quietly from the driver's seat of a beat-up Ford Escort. He wore dark clothes and a hat to avoid detection from whom he was detecting. His car sat parked along the curb of an unlit street in a more downtrodden, forgotten part of New Bedford. No one would notice him there, a man sitting in his car, sipping coffee. Watching. Waiting. In that neighborhood, people kept to themselves, especially in the dead, dark hours.

Across the street, the object of the man's attention paced nervously no more than two hundred feet away. His hands were crammed deep into the pockets of his black leather jacket, escaping the killing chill of the night air. The heat wave reverted, giving way to the harsh bite of an early winter. New England weather could be so unpredictable. The change in temperature was too often drastic. To Kevin, it seemed a cause of distress.

He hurriedly moved back and forth along the length of a metal fence topped with barbed wire, the only barrier standing between him and some lonely warehouse that likely prospered in the whaling city's earlier days. But those days were remembered by none alive, fence and warehouse as neglected as the rest of the city.

Encircling the watcher and the watched were dilapidated apartment buildings and old store fronts barricaded by iron shutters. Out there, nothing prospered. Out there, no one belonged. And Kevin didn't look as though he wanted to be out there.

From his position, the man in the Escort watched as Kevin repeatedly glanced at his watch. In Kevin's hand was a plastic bag, its contents hidden from the pair of eyes upon him. He chewed on the nails of his other hand. Nervousness showed clearly through his mannerisms. Who had called him there? Who else knew what his watcher knew?

From his seat, the man could read the single word "fuck" mouthed by Kevin's lips. Aided by binoculars and just enough moonlight, he couldn't make out all the details across the dark expanse between him and Kevin. He saw Kevin again check his watch. Kevin appeared angry, hostile. Then, Kevin took off in long, quick strides, racing directly toward him.