Usually press and public relations are handled by someone ranked higher in the force. Sometimes a sergeant, more often a lieutenant or captain. But in this particular case, I think Captain Walsh would be only pleased not to have to speak on the topic.
“I’ll do what I can. This one is pretty sensitive, though, as you’ve probably guessed.”
“Yeah, seems that way. Anyway. Got some time for questions?”
“One or two. Connors is waiting for me inside, though. If you have more than that, maybe we can grab a bite this evening.”
Jordan nods, considering. “Yeah, let’s do that. The usual?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Cool. See ya there.”
In this case, ‘the usual’ consists of some mediocre burgers and fries in a seedy dive, planted at the heart of what this town’s founders probably hoped would turn into downtown Riverdell. The only real reason we go there is because so few people frequent the establishment, allowing us our privacy and quiet, though the milkshakes aren’t bad, either.
I walk into the station through the back door and am washed over immediately by the busy haste of a law enforcement station under scrutiny. Floaters float this way and that, and I notice that when the shit hits the fan, there’s a visible difference between the floaters with confidence, who’ve been here for a while, and those that we just plucked out of training within the year. I slip to my desk. I am Van Gogh.
Not five seconds after my ass meets chair, Beth appears.
“Hey, those two uniforms I got for Love are almost off duty, and I haven’t been able to get anyone else over there. Any chance you’re up for round three?”
“Sure,” I say. “What did you want to talk about here?”
“I was gonna have you write a statement, but with certain aspects yet unresolved, I think that may be a bit premature.”
“Ah. I’ll take a sheet with me, anyway. Give me something to do at the hospital. For a little while, at least.”
“Cheers,” she says. “I’d tell you to be careful not to write anything that may fuck you over, but I think you’re more the expert here.” Her words are uncharacteristically blank, void of the expressiveness that they usually carry. My mind zips back to the times at Todd’s place and mine, and a surge of paranoia washes over me. I don’t anticipate that Beth will turn me in or in any other way fuck me over, but the possibility still exists.
Fabricated situations pop into my imagination in which armed officers burst into my apartment and seize me without warning, rattling off my rights as they wrestle me down the stairs outside of my apartment. Beth stands at the bottom in her most professional-looking pencil skirt and blazer, hands on her hips, eyes locked on me. Jenny Lewis stares wide-eyed at me through her grimy window, cackling wildly.
As I exit the building, I get a call from my new friend, Peter Sharp.
“Yes, hello again, Mr. Thorn. I have good news for you. I’ve just spoken with the funeral home and graveyard services. While normally there is quite a bit of preparation involved in such an affair, the parties involved have generously offered to expedite the services as a gesture of good will. They can arrange to have the services as early as midday tomorrow! Will that work with you and your schedule?”
“Midday. Noon?” The guy talks like he was raised by an English butler, but without the charming accent.
“Yes. A short viewing from noon to twelve-thirty, then the ceremony. The funeral home has accommodations for small situations such as this, including pallbearers. The hearse will then take the casket to the grave site, where a priest will sanctify the soil.”
There is no sanctification for him.
“Yeah, okay, that’s fine.”
“Perfect. I’ll confirm the arrangements and see you tomorrow. Do rest up, Mr. Thorn.”
“No promises. Bye.”
In reality, the only promise I could make at this point is that rest is NOT on the to-do list in the next twenty-some-odd hours. Now I’m just about hungry enough to want those mediocre burgers, and I shoot Jordan a text to let him know that I’m on my way.
Thirty
The lingering fear of Keroth’s guys prods at my hippocampus, but at this point, that part of my brain is all but numb. Trying to elicit a response from my fear core is akin to pouring gasoline into a car with no engine.
A rusty old-fashioned bell hangs above the door of Browman’s Diner, losing a charming chime when I enter. The interior looks rustic, like a tavern, even: exposed wooden floors, cedar bar stools, a bar that’s just one big slab of redwood, treated and polished. It hosts a degree of nostalgia, for me, acting as the stage in many a conversation with Jordan and, from time to time, Beth or other work friends. Only if Kev’s place was closed, though.
I take our usual corner booth in a nook next to the restrooms but separated by a wall. While I’m familiar with most of the staff at this particular restaurant, our server for the evening is a young woman who I don’t recognize. She looks to be mid-twenties, with a broader build and red-orange hair done up in a messy bun, complete with a pair of pens in it. She looks like she could be Felicia Day’s mother.
“What can I get ya, love?” And she has an Irish accent. Her nametag reads Maren.
“I’m actually waiting for a friend, but could I please get some water in the meantime? Two, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Sure thing, darlin’,” she says.
Gripped once more by paranoia, I try to scan the street through the windows, but the darkness that’s quickly making a meal of Riverdell swallows with it any chance I have of seeing anything in the windows beyond reflections of a struggling diner. This unsettles me more than I care to admit, but again, I don’t have the energy to commit to those worries. If I’m about to be torn apart by a couple of AK-47s, I suppose that’s simply how I go.
In an attempt to distract myself, I instead take note of the people within the restaurant, but there aren’t many; hopefully Jordan arrives soon.
At the bar, there’s a tall, scrawny guy with medium-length brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses. His nose, mouth, and ears are kind of small, but his eyes are not. He’s eaten all of his fries, but his burger has only two bites taken out of it, and his milkshake has simply melted into a glass of chocolate mess. By his dress and general demeanor, I’d say he wouldn’t look out of place in Patrick’s circles.
At a table near the center of the room, two women (one early-to-mid-twenties, the other somewhere between forty and fifty) chatter animatedly about someone’s cousin’s friend’s pool boy. Or something. The younger woman is platinum blond, though, based on her roots, artificially so. She and her (presumable) mother have both finished eating, and she’s leaning over a plate that’s near clean, save for a couple of ketchup blots and a bit of lettuce that escaped the sandwich during consumption. As I more acutely tune into their conversation, I find that it is not gossip at all, but the young woman relaying to her less young counterpart the joys and excitement of college life.
The older woman has impressive fashion sense; normally, in my experience, a woman of that age is either (willfully or otherwise) ignorant to the concepts of fashion and personal style or so entirely consumed by them that she’ll throw her credit card at anything with a designer label on it. But this woman has struck a visually interesting, functional dynamic into being, with nods to certain styles and trends without being gaudy.
Just then, the door chimes, signaling Jordan’s entrance. He starts toward our spot immediately and takes a seat beside me, pulling out a tape recorder and a blue pen that he purloined from a Days Inn in a city big enough to have one.
In response to Jordan’s arrival, Jenny appears at our side to take any further drink orders. Fortunately, we both know our orders, so we don’t need time to look through options before ordering. I order another meal to be served around when the check arrives.
“Who’s that for?” Jordan asks. He’s being more conversational than nosy, which I appreciate.
“Friend of mine,”
I say.
“Right. Well, we both know why we’re here. Shall we?”
“Ask away.”
“I told you everything they gave us. Can you give us any names other than Keroth? The girl or her family?”
“No,” I say. No way in hell am I crossing that boundary.
“Fair. What about background? Beyond perverted, two-faced perpetrator of evil, who is Keroth?”
“He was a high-ranking detective for Portland Metro, but obviously, that will cease to be the case immediately.”
“Do you have confirmation on that?”
I raise my left eyebrow at him.
“Right. Just checking.” It’s one of the things I love about Jordan, but damn, it can be annoying sometimes.
“What else? Portland Metro? What was he doing here?” Yes. Good journalist. Keep asking these questions.
“He had ties to a case here.”
“Ties to what case? Was he called in, or did he volunteer?” Getting warmer.
“To … my father, actually. The crews working the scene found Keroth’s number in his cell phone and made the connection. He was on scene that morning.”
“That morning. The body was discovered at what, seven o’clock?”
“Something like that.”
Jordan raises his eyebrows. “That’s dedication.” Something like that.
Most of the remaining questions are more of those that I can’t answer, details that I can’t provide. I feel bad that he has so little to go on, but I’ve seen this guy spin a story on less. If anyone can do it and do it right, it’s Jordan.
After a while, he turns off his recorder.
“So what do you think? Personally, off the records. Did he do it?” Bingo. A little more ‘off the records’ than I’d like, but he’s worked his way to the false conclusion that I needed him to discover. He’s subtly asking for my consent to give the story that subtle direction in its publication. Permission granted.
I sigh dramatically, exhaling through my nose. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell for sure. Part of me hopes so, so that I can arrive at some kind of closure. But another part of me hopes that my father had no involvement with Keroth’s brand of evil.”
Jordan nods. I think I sold it well.
“Well, I have a story to write. I think you and I are on the same page about the angle that this piece needs to take, don’t you think?”
I nod solemnly.
“Cool. I’ll catch up with you later, then, okay?”
“Yeah, later. I’ll look forward to it.”
He slaps a couple of bills on the table to cover both of our meals (and Todd’s), including a generous tip, and departs. What a gentleman.
I take Todd’s food to the hospital, hoping that he hasn’t eaten yet, though knowing Nurse Gale, he probably has. Still, I’m sure he’s sick of hospital food by now.
I arrive at his room to find two very bored officers leaning on their knees in the uncomfortable chairs flanking the doorway. They stand when they see me.
“Oh man, did you bring us food?”
“Fuck off, this is for him. You two can go. Thanks a million for your help. Anything noteworthy happen?”
“Nah. Boring old inside of a hospital. I guess it beats being shot at, but … not by much. I think someone down the hall kicked the bucket, but other than that, it’s been quiet.”
“Good. I’ll catch you two some other time, okay? Thanks again.”
When they leave, I go into the room to find Todd awake.
“I thought that was you,” he says. He makes no attempt to suppress a smile.
I can’t help but return it. “I brought you some entirely unhealthy, non-hospital food,” I say.
“Is that Browman’s? Oh god, that smells good.” Maybe they’ve changed their recipes. Or maybe Todd’s taste buds are dying of boredom.
“How’re things going?” I ask.
“Great!” he says. “Nurse Gale says I can leave tomorrow. My ribs had hairline fractures, so I need to baby ’em for a while, but they were pretty much already in place to heal properly. The arm will take a few more weeks, though.”
“Sounds about right. But I mean, with you, how’re things?”
He pauses for a few seconds, absorbing the meaning of the question, then exhales. “I don’t really know. All this time, I thought I had everything figured out. I had this vision of who I was and the man I had potential and desire to be, and a plan for how to make the two coalesce. And now, I’m finding that parts of my character that I considered to be integral are very much not so, or even just not there. It’s just jarring, you know? Like when you finish a really long book series and start reading something else. Consciously, you’re aware that it’s a new story, a new universe, with new characters and settings, but certain parts of your mind tell you that it’s wrong because the character from the other series is missing.”
“I think I can relate,” I say. “Honestly … I was never planning on telling anyone about my…vigilantism. But then I make this mess, and even though it’s hard and complicated and, well, morally questionable, you and Beth stick with me the whole way through. And for the first time, the barrier between the two worlds I live in starts to thin. And I just don’t want to live in that separate world anymore, not alone. I don’t know. I’m scared. Shitless. But I think it’s just because of the immense amount of change that I’m looking at. I’m uprooting. But if I can lay down roots somewhere less chaotic, then it’s worth it, isn’t it?”
“That makes sense to me,” he says. Then he busies himself with the food that I brought for him. I unwrap his burger for him, as his good hand can’t quite handle the task on its own.
After he finishes, I discard the trash and sit in the seat by his bed.
“Are you my guard for the night, then?” he asks.
“Yes, sir. Keroth’s guys haven’t shown up anywhere, but we don’t want to risk them showing up here.”
He shakes his head. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the whole situation.”
“It’s not worth it. This situation is distinctly a shape that your mind does not want to imitate.”
He laughs. “I’ll go ahead and just not think about it, then,” he teases.
“The solution recommended by nine out of ten doctors for ten out of ten problems.”
“Really? That many?”
“Give or take.”
He laughs himself into a drowsy daze, the kind that takes the reins at two in the morning and steers one’s thoughts through landscape after landscape of previously untouched territory.
“What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” he asks.
“Well, I think Beth will be coming to stand guard in the morning, at which point I have to go and get ready for my dad’s funeral.”
“Yikes. I don’t envy you. Hey, if I discharge in time, want me to go with you?”
“I’d appreciate that. But let’s not fight Nurse Gale on it if she wants you to stay longer, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. So. Are you speaking at his funeral, or…?”
“I don’t know. I feel like it’ll probably be expected of me, but I have nothing positive to say about him. Do you think that if someone asks me, I can just pretend that I’m too emotional to get any words out coherently? I haven’t told anyone, so maybe there will just be no one there anyway.”
“Maybe,” he says, smiling. “Oh, hey! I got us new phones. If your old SIM card doesn’t work, you can get that replaced, too, but I figured you could try it in this phone first, in case it still has some fight in it. Had them overnighted here to the hospital. Gale was pissed.” He laughs.
He hands me a small, heavy box, out of which I extract a shiny new phone. I make a mental note to retrieve my SIM card from my soggy old phone when I get back to my place.
Just then, Nurse Gale hurries in, spots me, rolls her eyes, smells the remaining odors of the food I brought, and glares at me.
“We have a couple of open beds, Detective. If you bring that shit in here ag
ain, I’ll be sure you’re in one of ’em.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Your friend’ll be good to go home tomorrow. I won’t be here, but the doctor will bring the discharge papers by when she gets the chance. You let him rest now, you get me? No late-night ragers?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You being smart with me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smacks me in the head with a handful of laminated papers. “The doctor will be in most of the day tomorrow, but will be in meetings most of the morning. You can probably expect her in the early afternoon sometime.”
Todd and I exchange subdued shrugs and Nurse Gale leaves.
“Well. Guess I can see you afterward,” I say.
I don’t tell Todd about my visit with Nancy just yet; I need to process it more first. Little more playful banter takes place before the evening spins into night, draining both of us of our energy and leaving with us a cloud of lethargy. I turn off the lights and he falls asleep quickly, tossing and turning now and then, but for the most part, a settled sleep.
Morning comes with a dreary drizzle—my favorite kind of morning. Beth comes before Todd wakes up, and delivers the most satisfying cup of coffee I’ve ever had.
Standing outside of his room now, I tell her, “Gale says he can go home today, but we’re not sure when the doctor will come around. She says sometime early afternoon.”
“Lovely. You go rest up.”
“No can do. Daddy’s funeral is in a few hours.”
“Oh shit. Really? Do you want me to go? I might be able to get someone down here.”
“Nah, you’re fine. Honestly, it’s just a formality.”
“If you say so. You have a working phone yet? I’ll text you and let you know when we get a release time.”
“Working phone, yeah. I’m not so sure about a SIM card, though. I’ll get on that this morning.”
Thirty-One
[Darkthorn 01.0] Pond Scum Page 24