by David Beers
Cemeteries, except for the dead, were normally empty of people. John thought it strange that people spend all that time and energy putting someone in the ground, and then if you’re lucky, someone might come see your gravesite once a year. If you weren’t lucky, no one showed up ever.
John parked his car as close to his mother’s grave as he could. Saturday morning and he was the only person here. The sun had just popped over the horizon, casting light at a low angle across the tombstones sticking up across the green lawns. John hadn’t been here in just over a year, because …
Well, because the guy sitting next to you made you kill someone, he thought and looked over at Harry. Harry hadn’t taken much respite since showing back up. Followed John all day yesterday, went home with him, and now sat in his car on a weekend morning as John prepared to visit his mother’s grave.
“You going to stay here?” he said.
“Do you want me to?” Harry looked over to him.
“Yeah, I’d prefer it.”
“That’s fine. I might get out of the car and smoke a cigarette,” Harry said.
John tilted his head slightly, squinting his eyes. “A cigarette?”
“Yeah, I’ve found that it relaxes me.”
John shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.” He got out of the car and heard Harry call, “I love you!” from inside. He shut the door harder than it needed and walked across the grass to his mother’s grave. The lawn was perfectly cut and John felt good about that. They had found a nice place to lay their mother to rest; he wouldn’t want to see weeds and tall grasses here.
It only took him a few seconds to get to her, and he stopped, looking at the flowers to the left and right. He stood a few feet back, not wanting to actually walk over his mother. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He heard Harry get out of the car, but the door didn’t close. He imagined the bloated man standing just outside the passenger’s seat, leaning over the hood, and staring at John.
Always watching.
Always marching John forward.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said to the grave. His eyes were dry and his hands still. “I can’t stop it anymore, I don’t think. Not even for a brief time, because it’s back. It’s standing behind me right now, watching, waiting for me to get done so it can start its endless pull.”
He paused for a few minutes, feeling the chill of morning air on his face.
“It’s going to wreck everything if I can’t control it. My priest basically disowned me. Diane knows something is wrong. The kids will soon.”
He sighed.
“Did you know, Mom?” he said. “Did you know how this would turn out for me? Because I didn’t. I thought … I thought it was fucking manageable, I guess. There’s nothing manageable here, though, is there?”
No smile came across his face, even with the sarcastic comment.
“I’m going to keep trying, Mom. I’m going to keep fighting it, but I don’t think I can anymore. I think it’s going to take over, and when it does, I’m going down. My whole family is going down.”
His mother didn’t reply. She lay still in her grave, with only the flowers and tombstone to hear his words.
Was he really going to fight it, or was that just what he told himself? He could smell the cigarette smoke from Harry floating with the breeze, wrapping itself around him the same way Harry’s words always did. Harry wasn’t leaving, no matter how much John begged him to. John could curse and scream and ignore, but Harry would still be there, torn, blue flesh, telling him it was time to get to work.
Work.
What a word.
As if what they did was a job and not the most horrible thing imaginable. Just another person heading into the office, only John’s office was near a lake and his instrument a gun.
He shook his head. No answer from his mother. No answer from his God. The only answer he heard, ever, was from Harry.
John stood a few more minutes and then turned around. He looked up at Harry, cigarette in his right hand, the one with only three fingernails left on it, the rest ripped loose.
John walked back to the car, his head down.
19
A Portrait of a Young Man
Years Earlier
How many years had Lori come to Dr. Vondi?
“How many years has it been?” she said from his couch.
Was he aging? He was older than her, though she had never asked exactly how much older. But yes, she thought there were more wrinkles around his eyes and his hair grayer than when she started.
“Four years,” Dr. Vondi said. “Hold on.” He stood up and walked to his computer clicking his mouse a few times. “Four years next month, actually.” He smiled as he came back to his chair. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“I suppose so,” Lori said, smiling back.
“Notice what we haven’t discussed in a long time?”
“What’s that?” she said.
“You worrying about your kids and Clara.”
She nodded. A good bit of time had passed since she brought up anything around that subject.
“I guess it kind of faded away,” she said. She didn’t smile, because even the conversation brought up a nervousness she didn’t appreciate.
“Things like that normally do. How are they doing, the kids?”
“Good. John has a new friend,” she said.
“Yeah?”
Lori did smile now. “Yeah. You know John’s been kind of a loner. He doesn’t really bring a lot of people over to the house and he never sleeps over anywhere. Not until this friend. The kid is always at the house, but he’s pretty good. Doesn’t try to eat us out of house and home, ya know?” She looked out the window. The same motion she’d been doing for years. “He seems happy. I suppose Alicia has always seemed the happier of the two, but since this kid has come into John’s life, he seems happier too.”
“That’s awesome, Lori. What’s his name?”
“Harry.”
20
Present Day
Susan didn’t know Teresa. She hadn’t worked for the Dallas Police Department back then, but the neighboring one in Fort Worth. She knew how Alan felt about the woman, but only because he refused to talk about her. Susan didn’t ask—in fact, their discussions since this newest murder were the first real conversations they’d had about his dead partner.
Alan wanted the case and Morone just sent down word that he could have it. First thing Monday morning, the email was sitting in both their inboxes.
Then the results of the dental scans came back, giving John Doe a name.
“Have you slept?” Susan asked Alan. She had received the email from forensics and then walked over to his desk.
“Yeah, I have.”
“What’s your wife saying?” Susan said.
“Not much.”
She nodded, her lips pressed tight together. She didn’t want to think he was ruining his marriage, but he was. She wouldn’t say anything more, though. Especially not right now.
“You see the name?” she said.
“Paul Stinson is our victim.” Alan looked up from his computer a smile on his face. “Let’s see what we can find out about him, no?”
Find out they did. Married man. Three kids. Full time job at a mid-sized tech company. His wife reported him missing as soon as possible, two days after his disappearance, though she called in before that.
“Alright, I’m going to take the wife and you start going down this list.” John held out three pieces of paper, Stinson’s bank card history. “Sound good?”
Susan knew her place in this: she was taking orders. She didn’t mind, not normally and certainly not now.
She pulled up to the Starbucks in her unmarked car. Susan was glad the last place he used the card was here, because she rarely turned down a chance for coffee (though Dunkin’ beat Starbucks any day of the week).
Susan got in line, a relatively short one compared to usual. Ten AM on Monday and most people wer
e at work. She looked at those sitting down, in line, and behind the counter. Her best bet here was someone remembering Stinson’s face, and there wasn’t any reason they shouldn’t—the bank account showed him coming here often.
“Grande dark roast, room for cream,” she said at the counter. “Also, is your manager in?”
“Yeah, they definitely remember him,” Susan said into her phone.
“Would hope so. The guy practically kept Starbucks stock afloat by himself,” Alan said. “What do they remember about that day?”
“What you’d expect, not much, though only one person that worked that day is working today. I’ve got the names and addresses of everyone else and I’m going to contact them next. Anything from the wife?”
“Not home yet.”
She heard his reluctance. The conversation he was about to have wouldn’t be an easy one.
“Any idea how you’re going to tell her?” Susan asked, sitting in her car and looking at the Starbucks store.
“Just going to be up front about it.”
“Don’t push her, Alan,” she said. “I know what you want here, but you might have to give the woman some time.”
“I know. I won’t push.”
“Alright,” she said. “I’m really hoping that he came to this place with someone. Either someone regularly or someone a couple days ago. And then, I’m hoping the employees remember both.”
“Not that big of a long shot.”
“Alright, call me once you’ve talked to her. I’m going to make some calls and wade through this list.”
She hung up the phone. Susan hadn’t had to make a house call like Alan was about to handle. She imagined what she would say, but who knew once you actually stood in front of a freshly made widow?
She didn’t believe Alan wouldn’t push the woman. He’d do whatever he thought necessary to get more information about her husband, and that might backfire pretty bad on him. If the wife kicked him out of the house? Refused to speak to him? Claimed harassment?
“Damn it,” she said aloud. “He’s going to be pissed.”
The more she thought about it, she didn’t want to leave him alone on that house call.
The last thing he needed was a call from the widow to Morone saying Alan’s questions wouldn’t stop, and only minutes after she found out her husband was dead.
Susan pulled up her work email on the phone and quickly found the wife’s address.
“For your own good,” she said and then put the car in gear.
Alan looked at his watch, seeing the time was eight at night.
The kids would still be up.
He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad, especially after today. He opened the door of his car, grabbed his bag, and started up the driveway.
Alan was pissed when he saw Susan’s car pull up to the curb of Stinson’s house, but now, walking to his own, he knew why she did it. He could handle telling people about the death of their loved one, done it far too many times to be bad at it, but this time was different. Susan understood that even when he hadn’t.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said.
“Hopefully saving you,” she said, not getting out of her car.
And that she did, though he didn’t know it at the time.
The conversation between he and Mrs. Stinson went horribly. He hadn’t understood how much he craved what she knew about her husband until the woman was sobbing in front of him, and he still wanted to push her. Susan hadn’t let him; she reined the whole situation in. Alan didn’t get exactly what he wanted from the house visit, but he might have gotten what he needed, because he’d be able to see the woman again.
Christ, she was devastated.
He looked at the front door to his house, it approaching much faster than he wanted.
He went in and placed his bag down on the floor, next to the wall. He shut the door quietly. He didn’t hear his kid’s pattering feet running to see him, though he did hear the television in the living room. Alan shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at his feet. He slowly walked into the living room entryway; Marie sat in the middle of the couch with Callie and Carissa sitting on either side of her.
She looked up to him. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he said.
“Rough day?”
He nodded.
“There’s food in the fridge. You want me to heat it up?”
“I can do it,” he said. He went to the back of the couch and leaned over and kissed Marie before looking at the television. “Which one is this?”
“Blue’s Clues,” Marie said.
“They must really like it. They haven’t even noticed I’m home.”
“We noticed, Daddy,” Callie said. “We’re sleeeeeepy.”
“Oh yeah?” Alan said.
“Oh yeah,” Marie answered. “Go ahead and grab some food; I’ll get them in bed.”
Alan worked in the kitchen and listened to his wife get the girls off the couch and to the back of the house. He somewhat hated himself as he pulled the casserole dish from the refrigerator. Marie was the most understanding woman in the world and yet he didn’t want to be here. He had no desire to heat this plate and sit down at the dining room table, eating warmed leftovers. He wanted to get back to work. The day had been long but they weren’t that much closer to catching anyone.
Marie walked into the kitchen as the microwave went off. Alan took the plate over to the table and sat down.
“Are you going to kiss them goodnight?” she said.
“Yeah, as soon as I finish here.”
Marie sat down. “What happened?”
“He’s back,” Alan said, stabbing a piece of ravioli with his fork.
“He?”
“The person who killed Teresa.” He didn’t lift the fork to his mouth, just sat there staring at the plate.
“No, Alan. He can’t be. That was five years ago.”
“It’ll be in the paper tomorrow morning,” he said.
Marie was quiet and John finally picked up the bite and put it in his mouth. He chewed, hearing only the grinding of the food and the television from the living room.
“Have you talked to Rashard?”
Alan shook his head. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“He’s going to find out tomorrow, though?”
“If he reads the paper, he will.”
“You have to talk to him,” Marie said.
“I know. I will tomorrow.”
21
Present Day
“Are you listening to me?” Diane said.
“Yes, of course,” John said.
She knew he wasn’t. He had come into their bedroom a few days ago and apologized for everything, and now he sat on the couch doing the exact same thing.
“What did I say, then?”
He paused for a second. “I didn’t hear you, will you say it again?”
“Are you kidding me, John?” Diane walked around to the front of the couch. “What happened to everything you told me Wednesday morning? Because you’re doing it again. Do you realize you’re sitting here staring at the TV, except it’s on mute?”
John blinked as if seeing the TV for the first time.
“You didn’t even notice, did you?” Diane said. She shook her head, exasperated almost to the point of speechlessness.
“What do you want from me?” John said, his eyes flashing from the TV to Diane.
“I want you to do what you fucking told me you were going to do. I’m literally expecting you to leave any second and not come back for hours. You do know your sister and her husband are coming over tonight? You remember that at least, right?”
“Yes,” he said. His lips were thin and his face … Diane thought his skin might snap at any second, revealing a skull staring back at her, with the amount of tension running through him.
“What’s going on?” she said, her voice softening. “Will you just tell me?”
John looked back to the television. “There’s
nothing wrong, Diane. I just have a headache.”
She shook her head. None of this made sense. He had been okay when he came in with breakfast. He had been … happy. Free, even. And now, the man Diane looked at showed more anger toward her than love.
“The kids are going to be home soon, too. Are you going to be able to get it together, John? Or should I cancel the whole dinner?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, still not looking up. He stared at the television screen, silently showing a rerun of one show or another.
“Fine.”
Diane walked out of the living room and into the kitchen. The spaghetti sat on the stove and the sauce next to it. Garlic bread in the oven. Sweet tea in the refrigerator. Everything was just about ready to go except for her husband. He was like a zombie, to the point that their son, Tim, asked if something was wrong with him earlier this afternoon before both boys went to their friend’s. Everyone around him saw it and Alicia would tonight as well.
He wasn’t drunk, Diane felt sure about that. Hell, they didn’t have any alcohol in the house and he hadn’t left in hours. She’d been so busy getting everything together, she simply hadn’t noticed how quiet the place was.
God, please help me, she prayed silently, something she rarely did. The stress wasn’t from her sister-in-law showing up, but from whatever was happening inside her husband. He prayed, often, and Diane let him have it because it seemed to work for a long time. He wasn’t praying now, though. He wasn’t doing a goddamn thing. We can’t go through this again. If you’re there, we need you now, she said to whoever might be listening.
The heater gave enough warmth to make the cold night air bearable.
“What time is it?” John said.
“Two,” Alicia answered.
“You serious?” He turned around and looked at the glass doors of his house. Lights were on, the TV on, and he saw Alicia’s husband, Mark, lying on the couch asleep. “I guess everyone passed out?” he said, looking back to Alicia.